The Sun's Despite
by UnsureHistorian
Summary: An expansion and re-telling of the events of the Dawnguard DLC for The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim. Follow Brandon of Cyrodiil as he prepares to face what may be his greatest trial: descent into the depths of Castle Volkihar to defeat Lord Harkon, the father of the woman he loves. M!Dragonborn/Serana.
1. The Last Good Men

**The Sun's Despite: Chapter One**_  
_

**The Last Good Men**

_A cold wind howled across the low, slumping hills, and the prone, silent form nestled snugly against a snowy hillside. Winter had come early to Skyrim, and as he pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders, Brandon again cursed the day he had ever set foot in the wretched province. In the fading twilight, he could see torches flickering in their sconces atop the fortification's walls, and Stormcloak campfires twinkling beyond. A slight rustling disturbed the silence of his careful, militant observation, and he glanced to one side, seeing Janek – one of his scouts – crouching down beside him._

_"Sir, it's bloody cold out here. Can we head back to the camp now?"_

_"Have you mapped your side of the fort? Gotten an accurate count?"_

_"Yessir."_

_"Has Holden checked in with you?"_

_"Nosir."_

_"Then why are you bothering me, Janek? You know the answer. Get back to your position."_

_There was a heavy sigh and then a weary "yessir."_

_Once Janek was out of earshot, Brandon heaved his own sigh, and waited._

_… Nahshulyol felt his wings billow under him as a warm updraft carried him aloft. Since his first waking, no greater pleasure had he taken than in the unmatched joy of flight. Even now, five centuries from the Making, he still felt the same boundless exhileration as when he had first spread his youthful wings and taken to the skies. Letting a great roar surge from his throat and echo across the sky, he folded his wings and dove towards the mountaintop…_

_"Sir?"_

_Brandon shook his head, trying to clear the wool from his mind._

_"Sir, are you all right?"_

_Janek's presence finally registered, and Brandon nodded slowly in response._

_"Is everyone back?"_

_"Yessir." Brandon gave his small team a quick once over, counting silently in his head. Everyone was there; nobody missing._

_"What's the word, gentlemen?"_

_Silently, the members of his team handed Brandon small pieces of parchment, covered in sketches of the Stormcloak fort and estimations of strength and equipment. Taking a few moments, Brandon carefully checked them against his own observations and formulated a quick picture of the fort's entirety and its garrison. The centurion would expect his full report as soon as he returned to camp, and Brandon wanted to be prepared._

_Nodding slowly in approval, Brandon motioned for the team to return to camp. The four of them spread out and moved stealthily through the snow-driven terrain, their white cloaks blending smoothly into the frigid surroundings._

* * *

"It's disgusting."

The pronouncement from the head of the table was accompanied by the clatter of discarded cutlery, and the noise shattered the companionable silence which had – until that moment – settled over the dining hall.

Gunmar sighed internally, and shot a wearied look at Sorine. They both knew what had prompted their leader's declaration, and it wasn't the food. Hoping that Isran would leave his tirade unfinished, Gunmar returned his attention to the deliciously aromatic lamb stew that had been prepared for the night's meal.

"What is, Isran?"

Gunmar sighed again and abandoned his spoon into its bowl, knowing that he now had no chance to finish his meal in peace. He looked up reluctantly towards the table's head. There, the leader of the Dawnguard was leaning back in his chair, staring desultorily at his own stew. Agmaer, the young nord boy who had spoken up, was still earnestly watching Isran, waiting for a response.

"The way he carries on with that… thing."

Agmaer looked at the others seated around the table, plainly confused. "The way who carries on with what?" he questioned.

Isran remained silent. Finally, Gunmar answered for him. "Isran's talking about Brandon and Serana, boy."

"I agree," piped up Beleval from the table's end, her dark eyes roaming furiously over the assembled company, "it's disgraceful; we're supposed to be killing vampires, not fucking them."

"Nobody asked you, Beleval." Shouted a man from one of the other tables.

"Oh I don't know," sighed Tilde, "I think it's awfully romantic—"

"'Romantic?' Don't believe that bullshit for one minute. The bitch is just trying to draw him away so she can turn him without us noticing – and then they'll both come back for the rest of us!" Beleval was warming to her subject now, her dark Dunmer skin flushing with emotion as she stood; her voice raised to carry to the entire company. "We should throw him in the dungeon, and kill his little vampire whore before they hand us all over to Harkon!" There were a few murmurs of approval; others were not so favorably impressed, and said so.

"Sit down, Beleval!"

"Yeah, sit down and shut up!"

"Where I come from, Dunmer know their place and keep quiet at table."

"Piss off, Jenssen," retorted Beleval, and the big Nord stepped up from his seat; a fight was brewing.

Gunmar raised his voice and shouted over the tumult. "All right, lock it up!" When the shouting had died down he turned to the dark elf. "Please, Beleval, think about what you're saying. I think Brandon can handle one little vampire. And even if he couldn't, he wouldn't betray us – not even for Serana."

There were a few shouts of approval, and a few of the men drummed the table with their fists in applause.

As he returned to his seat, Gunmar had already forgotten the exchange and his mind had turned once more to his meal. But as he settled into the bench once more, Sorine gestured to him, dragging his attention again away from his stew.

"I don't know, Gunmar, Beleval may have a point. He is young, and she is very beautiful; what if he let himself be turned… it could be the end of everything we've worked for." Gunmar opened his mouth to respond when Florentius broke in.

"I like her, for one. She's been a big help – and not just to Brandon. Arkay likes her too." Seemingly regarding this endorsement as the last word on the subject of the vampiress' trustworthiness, the one-time priest lapsed again into silence and returned to his stew with gusto.

Beleval rolled her eyes in exasperation, and slumped back into her seat.

There was a pause, and Gunmar finally spoke up. "She came here on here own, willingly, and has been living with us ever since. That takes a lot of trust on her part – we could have decided to kill her on sight. But she's stayed around, helping us fight her own father… No. I think we can trust her. Besides, if we tried to kill her without cause, I'm sure Brandon would take her side – and I'm not certain we could handle him."

Beleval made a vaguely obscene noise of disagreement.

"He may not look like much, Beleval, but he's more capable than you realize."

"Gunmar's right," put in Celann.

"Hear, hear."

"Besides," Gunmar chuckled, "I think the boy's earned a little relaxation."

Tilde smiled, and an amused silence spread over the assembly. Agmaer looked at each of them, clearly confused. "I don't understand. What are you talking about? What do you mean, Gunmar?"

Durak chuckled lasciviously and looked over at the boy. "What, you didn't think he followed Serana up to the roof so they could play cards, did you?"

"What? Oh." The young nord blushed furiously and stared at his toes as a roar of laughter erupted from his fellows and echoed throughout the interior of the keep.

* * *

The thick iron hinges screeched as Brandon shouldered open the heavy oaken door and felt the cool wind blow across his face. It was a dark night, and the stars shone palely in their celestial fixtures; the vague shapes of battlements and the further, darker, outline of the surrounding mountains was all Brandon could make out.

Turning to close the door, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Shapes of supplies and equipment distinguished themselves from the cool rock, and Brandon saw now a dark shape, standing silhouetted against the sky: a dark void in the night.

"Serana?" Though he had barely spoken in a whisper, his voice carried far in the still night air. In silent response, the dark shape shifted, and two new stars joined their fellows – but these were of a different hue: firey and more alive than the cold fastnesses of distant suns.

Brandon moved forward and stood beside her, and she turned again to gaze out across the mountains. He turned his head to look at her, but she did not return his glance.

"They're planning it, aren't they?" Her voice was quiet and soft, but beneath the restrained tone Brandon could sense a tense, anguished emotion; he hesitated.

"Tomorrow – yes." She stirred, but said nothing. "Serana—"

"You don't have to come; Isran will be sure to leave a detail to guard the fortress while we leave – you could stay with them; one person won't make any difference one way or the other." At this she turned and looked directly at him, her clear voice tinged with anxiety.

"Could you say the same for yourself?" she accused, but Brandon merely shook his head, and waved his hand in dismissal.

"That's different."

Serana stared at him. "How? How is it 'different?' Do you _want_ to go?"

Brandon winced, and looked away. "Of course I don't _want_ to go. But it has to be done; I have a responsibility to finish this. Call it 'duty' if you like – I couldn't abandon Isran and the others now."

"But I could. Is that what you're saying?"

"No, that's not—" Brandon shook his head in agonized despair, everything he said went amiss. He paused for a long moment while Serana merely stood, watching him. "Serana, he's your _father_."

She didn't answer, and at first Brandon thought she might not have heard him. But then in a cold, harsh voice she said, "Not anymore." When Brandon turned to look at her, she was staring levelly across the walls out to the mountains beyond and her face was frozen and hard.

Brandon placed his back against the thick stone of the battlements, and slid slowly down into the loose mattress of straw at its base. He was bent with his knees pulled against his chest, looking back at the door into the castle. Setting his arms to rest on his upright knees he opened his mouth as if to speak and then hesitated. He closed it and then spoke very quietly, "Don't say things like that Serana, please."

The vampiress turned and snapped her fingers, sending a spark flying to ignite a torch hanging from a sconce in the wall. Suddenly the pair were bathed in a flickering orange light, and Serana sat down next to Brandon, looking at him gently. All harshness was gone from her face, replaced by a quiet concern.

"You've never talked about your parents." Brandon looked away and gave no answer. Suddenly, he felt cool fingers wrap themselves around his own hand. His heart leaped in his chest, but he kept his gaze fixed ahead.

"How can you ask me to let you go alone – to face him without me? He may have been my father, but he forsook me long ago. Could you best him alone? He is terrible."

Brandon was intensely aware of her presence: the feel of her hand in his, the sound of her breathing, the rise and fall of her breasts. She was so close, and the flickering torchlight played across her features as her eyes shone like twin suns. Brandon's tongue was frozen in his mouth; a long silence fell between them.

"Who was your father?" she probed gently, "Did he live in Skyrim?" Brandon gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head and stood suddenly – faster than he had intended – tearing his hand roughly from Serana's. He stood over her, not meeting her eyes as stared up at him, confusion writ across her face. When he spoke, his voice cracked. "Good night, Serana."

"Good night," she whispered as she watched him walk across to the door and disappear down the stairs.

* * *

The door shut behind him with an air of finality, and Brandon leaned against it. He breathed out heavily, and tried to wrench his mind out of the haze of distant memory and purposeful forgetfulness.

_"It's all right, boy."_

_The screams of the wounded and dying echoed in the background_.

_"It's all right."_

Brandon felt forgotten emotions well up from where he had buried them years and years ago. He sobbed softly and clenched his hands into fists. It was a long time before he could bring himself to leave the stair and re-enter the castle.

Opening the door, he came face to face with Gunmar, who quickly took in the young man's condition.

"What's wrong, son?" Brandon just looked at him. Gunmar shook his head knowingly and put his arm around Brandon's shoulders. "Women, huh? What're ya gonna do?" Brandon wasn't sure if this was a rhetorical question or not, and decided to remain silent. "Well," continued Gunmar, "I have the solution to all of life's problems. Just you stick with me, boy, and we'll forget all about her."

Gunmar's "solution" turned out to be six bottles of Colovian Brandy hidden behind Florentius' workstation: "four for me and two for you. Sound fair?"

Halfway through the first bottle, Brandon tried to stand. "Gunmar, I know you're trying to help, but we have to plan our movement to Volkihar tomorrow." Gunmar gave a bark of laughter and slapped him on the back.

"And what would you know of such things?"

Brandon looked wounded. "I was in the Legion."

When he did not continue, Gunmar made a noise of appreciation, and at this prompt, Brandon stared hard at the bottle of brandy (which was now empty). He nodded in unsteady affirmation before responding. "Mmm. Four years as an antesignani; had command of my own unit for the last year: sixty men. I was in five major engagements, and countless smaller ones; I was there with Legate Tullius at Windhelm, and it was my men who captured Ulfric's standard – I struck down Igmund Doom-Seer himself, and threw down his banner into the mud of the field."

Gunmar raised his eyebrows: now he really was impressed – if it was true. "Where were you positioned?" Brandon lifted his gaze up to the rafters, remembering.

"A few of the officers had proposed driving on Windhelm from the South and crossing the Yorgrim at the bridge near the city's foot. Folly, of course; Ulfric could have brought forces up behind us and pinned us against the river. Might have lost us the war if they'd been in charge, but the legate wasn't having any of it. He sent first and second cohorts along the East-West Road to take the forts in the pocket formed by the Three Rivers.

"You can't cross the White River East of Windhelm, so if we took those forts, the city would be cut off from the South. The balance of the legion would then proceed to surround Windhelm from the North. Our scouts reached the city nearly a week ahead of the main body, and we settled in to observe.

"Ulfric certainly was expecting something; by our estimates he had gathered a force in excess of fifteen-hundred troops of various capacity. If Ulfric had decided to sit behind his walls he might have made a fight of it.

"But like most Nords, he could never back down from an open challenge. When the legion appeared, he didn't draw his force behind the walls; for whatever reason, he came out to lead them. I can still remember the sight of his banners flapping in the chill breeze. Does it always snow in Windhelm? Sure as hell seemed like it.

"My unit was screening the left flank of the army when the Stormcloak cavalry fell on us from out of the trees. We were too dispersed, so they chopped us up real bad; must've lost half my unit in the first few minutes, though I managed to get some of my guys together and we were able to make a stand. The equites came up real quick – which's to their credit – and rode off the Stormcloaks, but by that time the main body of Ulfric's army was too close, and I barely had time to get my men formed up before the lines made contact.

"It's a miracle I survived, really; I have some skill with a blade, but I was a questor, not a legionary. I don't know how long the battle lasted – it's all just a blur in my memory. I remember Igmund though. He was a terror, slaying all about him; Ulfric's standard didn't slow him down a bit. By that time I'd expended all my javelins, and my spear was lying broken under a horse somewhere behind me. I'd drawn my sword and had just killed a Stormcloak – I remember he was an old man, maybe fifty years old. As I looked up from his body, I could see a path through the melee to Igmund – I don't know where Ulfric was, I suppose he must have been separated from Igmund and the standard at some point. I don't know what I was thinking, but I rushed towards him. Before I got there, an equite came riding past and slashed down at Igmund, but the man just dodged it and knocked the horse to the ground, rider and all. A few of my men were still with me, and we fought our way towards Igmund. While he had his back to me – finishing off the equite, I presume – I stabbed him through the back.

"My sword went clean through him, but I might have just kicked his shins for all the good it did me. Igmund roared and whirled on me, striking at me with his huge sword. I managed to get my shield up, but the strength of the blow shattered my shield and knocked me sprawling to the ground. Janek – one of my men – rushed up before Igmund could finish me off, but was killed with a single stroke. I scrabbled for my sword while I was still lying in the muck and snow of the field, and slashed across Igmund's legs in desperation. The Lady was with me, and I caught a weak point in Igmund's armor and hamstrung him.

"I'll never forget the sound I heard the Stormcloaks make when Ulfric's banner slipped out of Igmund's hand and fell into the dirt: it was like a low mournful groan, like the dying breath of a wounded beast; the heart left them, and they fled.

"As I stood over Igmund, panting, he stared at me, full of hate and spite. 'I'm going to kill you now,' I told him. I don't know what made me say that. He just spat at me. I don't remember much after I put my sword through his heart: just vague memories of blood and fear. You know the rest of the story anyway.

A few weeks later, after the war was officially over, I got a commendation and an honorable discharge." Brandon gave a heavy sigh. "So it goes," he said. "Nothing like the songs, huh?" He reached over for another bottle and took a long drink.

"It never is," said Gunmar. After a long pause, the big Nord spoke again. "Do you regret leaving?"

Brandon took a long drink and swayed a little. "I try not to think about it much. It wasn't really my choice anyway; the Legion was the only life I ever really knew."

"What did you do before you joined?"

Brandon became suddenly silent and stared into the fire. "Not tonight, Gunmar."

"As you wish." Brandon took another drink and seemed content to remain silent. "How's Serana?"

Brandon sighed and set down the brandy. "You're not a particularly subtle individual, are you Gunmar?"

The Nord shrugged his broad shoulders. "And you're hard to pin down. Are you going to answer my question or not?"

"No. That plain enough for you?" Gunmar grunted, but said nothing. After that, the pair continued to drink in silence until Brandon began to sway uncontrollably in his seat.

* * *

"C'mon youngster, time to sleep it off," said The Voice. Brandon murmured in protest and waved his arm in vague dismissal. The Voice grabbed him by the arms and gently lifted him to his feet, directing him towards a small cot which was very soft and very warm.

* * *

_The burnished leaves of the trees shone dull grey in the dawning light; the sun had not yet peeked over the eastern hills, and the sky showed only a hint of its imminent arrival. Already birds were chirping, and the night insects had yet to retire, still speaking one to another in the chill promise of dawn._

_"That's the way, boy: draw back a little farther… good!"_

_Brandon sighted down the long ash arrow, taking aim at the makeshift target his father had assembled some fifty yards away. Two of the long-shafted arrows already sprouted from the tree-bole, and Brandon gauged the wind as he breathed out and then released. There was a _whiff_ as the bowstring sprang and propelled the arrow forward to impact solidly in the wooden flesh of the target._

_He let his left arm fall as his father clapped him on the back. "Ha! Good shot, boy." Brandon looked up at his father, and they both smiled._

_"Breakfast!" Came a shout from the house, and Brandon ran forward to collect his arrows while his father waved at the house in acknowledgement._

_Quick as he could Brandon ran back, eager for breakfast. Mother had made his favourites, and when they had sat down, he attacked his meal. His parents had only half finished their own meal by the time Brandon was done, and he watched them impatiently._

_"So can I come hunting with you today, dad?" His mother looked stern, but then she smiled and his father nodded._

_"'Course you can, son. It's not every day a boy turns twelve, is it?" Mother laughed her quiet, sparkling laugh, and began to clear the table while Brandon and his father started to gather the supplies they would take on their trip._

_The sun was high in its course before they reached their chosen ground and began actively tracking the forest's deer. Staring intently at the ground, Brandon nearly shouted in excitement when he discovered traces of their prey. He turned to call his father's attention to the spoor, but there was no sign of him._

_"Father?" he whispered, hoping that he had not strayed far. There was no response. Brandon backtracked, trying to discern from the forest floor where they had been separated, but it was beyond his skill. Finally, he raised his voice and shouted. "Father? Where are you?"_

_Backing up, he continued calling. The forest, which had just a few minutes ago seemed so light and airy now took on a menacing aspect: threat lurked behind every tree and in every branch there was the hint of malice. He took one more step and then froze: something was behind him. Whirling, he ripped his knife from its sheath and dropped into the fighting stance his father had taught him._

_Sightless unblinking eyes stared into his own. The flensed body of his father hung nailed to an outstretched tree-limb._

_"It's all right, boy," said the corpse._

_T__he screams of the wounded and dying echoed in the background_.

_"It's all right."_

**UH**


	2. Songs of the Wild Men

**The Sun's Despite: Chapter 2**

** Songs of the Wild Men**

_A warm updraft caught his feathered wings and lifted him higher as he circled in the spaces between the mountains. It was summer, and only on the shoulders of the highest mountains did there remain any trace of Skyrim's winter chill. His sharp eagle eyes scanned the ground, so far below, looking for any sign of movement. The heat was oppressive, and the sun beat down in waves that were almost palpable, but still the eagle circled, hoping to catch his mid-day meal. Then, in the distance, on a small trail, he saw a hint of movement. Circling closer, he saw that it was a man and a horse, burdened with shield and bow, and other gear of war. _No common sense_, thought Amandir,_ only Men would ride around in metal clothing on such a day as this. It is beyond my ken. _There had been much activity on that trail in recent days, more indeed than in the past decade. But Men were fickle creatures, abandoning their homes and then retaking them almost as quickly; it had been many years since Amandir had troubled himself with the affairs of Men._

_ Then, Amandir saw the man turn, and even from that great distance, Amandir felt the weight of the man's gaze. The man's lips moved silently, and then deep in his very mind, Amandir heard the words: fair and wondrous speech. He turned and stooped swiftly towards the man._

* * *

_The road was long and dry; even the trees around him seemed desiccated by the heat as the mercenary trudged up the thin, winding mountain path. He had dismounted in order to ease his mount, but she tossed her head and danced nervously._

_ "I know, girl: I don't like it either." He paused and looked around uncertainly: a bad place to be caught unawares. His horse jumped a little as great wings flapped down and landed gently on the pommel of his saddle, the eagle's claws sinking slightly into the soft leather._

_ The mercenary spoke calmly to the horse, soothing it, and then turned toward his visitor. It was a great golden eagle, its wings perhaps ten feet across; there was wisdom in its eyes, and fierceness in its gaze._

_ Bowing low, the mercenary addressed the eagle. "Greetings, Amandir, lord of eagles."_

_The eagle bowed his head and waited. After a short pause, the mercenary continued. "I apologize for disturbing your hunt, but I would ask your aid. Have others passed this way in recent days?" The eagle cocked his head, inspecting the bizarre man facing him. The outward appearance of this man suggested merely a sell-sword of average means, but clearly more lay beneath._

_ "A boy went by some hours ago, and others I have seen pass by; but of their business I have no knowledge. The Dawnguard built a great stronghold here, many years ago - perhaps that is what they sought? I do not know for certain."_

_ The mercenary bowed again, relieved, as the eagle bent his wings to lift once more into the air. "May your eyrie receive you well."_

_ "And you, yours," replied the eagle. And then he was gone._

_ "Well. He was nice." Said the mercenary, half to himself. His horse looked at him mournfully. The mercenary chuckled and patted the horse's withers. "That's all right, Lis. You did fine." She whickered and nuzzled his neck._

_ After another half-hour's travel they turned a bend in the trail and emerged into a small valley, bounded on both sides by gentle slopes and many stands of trees. In the distance the mercenary could see a great fortress rise out of the mountainside; silhouetted against it was a young man standing stock still, as if frozen._

_ The mercenary's voice broke the stillness and made the kid jump. "If you keep standing like that, kid, you're going to put down roots."_

_The kid turned to face him and fidgeted, rubbing his shoulder nervously; he didn't answer._

_ "What are you doing here, kid?" the mercenary asked. The trees around them rustled gently in the cool mountain breeze._

_ The kid straightened a little, and some steel entered his voice. "Same as you, I expect: I want to join the Dawnguard." The mercenary looked the kid up and down; he didn't look like much of a fighter, and he couldn't have been more than seventeen. _Still, how old was I? _the mercenary thought_.

_ "What's your name, kid?" _

_ "Agmaer." The mercenary approached the kid slowly and clapped him lightly against the back. _

_ "Well, Agmaer, we're not getting any younger. Let's get up there." The kid looked at him gratefully and nodded. They traveled for a while in silence, until the kid began to grow restless, and began inspecting his companion. The mercenary was tall, a hand or so above the kid's own height, and slender, with the lean build of a man who has endured many harsh winters. His face was concealed behind the inscrutable mask of his greathelm, and his mail was worn and patched with much use. Around his neck, almost hidden by a plain woolen surcoat, hung a thin silver chain; whatever depended from it was concealed beneath his armor. Strapped to his saddle was a longsword, a plain roundshield, and an old bow and quiver, along with supplies and a bedroll. Most of the gear was battered but well-cared for; the sword alone was an anomaly, for it was in immaculate condition. The sheath was black, with silver chasing, and engraved on the hilt were strange letters that Agmaer could not read._

_ "What—" he paused until the mercenary turned to look at him, and then continued, pointing to the silvered hilt, "what does that say?"_

_ The expressionless helmet regarded him for a long time, and then turned away. "In the tongue of the Dunmeri it reads 'Minuial,' which means Morrowdim, or the time near dawn when the stars fade." He seemed to regard this as sufficient explanation, and the kid let the matter rest._

_ As they approached the castle of the Dawnguard, the mercenary had to take a moment simply to stand and admire the beauty of its construction: he had not seen such a magnificent fortification since his time in the Imperial City. _

_ "What is it?" asked the kid, staring somewhat confusedly at his companion; the mercenary had fallen behind as he admired the castle. The mercenary just looked at the kid and then shook his head resignedly. The pair continued forward until they began to hear a rythmic _thunk_, followed by a mechanical clattering. It was a sound the mercenary knew too well. He grabbed hold of the kid's arm and pulled him back behind the horse. Drawing Morrowdim silently from its sheath, the mercenary cautiously stepped forward, making no sound despite the heavy armor he wore. He looked back and saw Agmaer start to follow, but motioned him back, and the kid subsided._

_ The mercenary crept forward, taking cover behind the turret of an arm of the fortification which stood like the bole of some great stone tree. Peeking around the edge, he saw an orc practicing with a crossbow._

_ "I'm looking for the Dawnguard." The mercenary shouted. The orc started and looked around warily, his crossbow raised slightly in readiness._

_ "You've found them," said the orc, "or what there is so far. Why don't you step out where I can see you?"_

_ "Lower that crossbow and I'll consider it."_

_ Grumbling, the orc let the crossbow sink a few inches toward the ground. "If you're not a vampire, you've nothing to fear from me. Now just come out and we'll talk." The mercenary sheathed his sword and stepped out into the open. As he came to stand just opposite the orc he slowly removed his helmet. The orc raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Well now, an Imperial. Don't get many of those in these parts – leastwise not unless they're in the Legion." There was a lengthy pause as the two men took each other's measure._

_ Finally the mercenary turned and called out, "C'mon kid, it's okay." Agmaer emerged from where the mercenary had left him, leading the horse, and cautiously approached the pair. The orc looked the new arrival over and then turned back to Brandon._

_ "What's that?" asked the kid, indicating the crossbow._

_ "It's a crossbow, boy," said the orc, "nothing better for hunting vampires."_

_ The mercenary turned and spat dismissively into the dirt. "You don't see them much in Skyrim, kid – which is all for the better, as far as I'm concerned. A brutish, inelegant weapon." The orc looked amused._

_ "That may be so, but give me twenty men and a month, and I'll have them shooting birds on the wing while you're still trying to teach them how to string a longbow." He seemed to think he'd won a point; the mercenary said nothing._

_ "So you're looking for the Dawnguard, huh? Feel like joining up?" _

_ "That's the general idea." _

_ The orc grunted. "What're your names, then?" _

_ "The kid is Agmaer, and I'm Brandon."_

* * *

It was the shouting which woke Brandon from his slumber, as Gunmar's voice hammered in through the heavy oak of the bedroom door.

"Brandon!" Swinging himself out of his cot, Brandon moved quickly to the door and unbolted it. Gunmar immediately threw it open and confronted the younger man.

"C'mon, Brandon, it's time." Brandon grunted in response and threw on a plain woolen tunic as he followed Gunmar out the door. Already he could hear the sound of argument drift up from the common room.

"Isran, we don't have the strength to take the castle!"

"We have to do something, Sorine; we can't just sit here as the vampires gain strength. We may have Auriel's Bow in our keeping, but sooner or later Harkon will come for it – and if we wait too long we won't have the strength to resist him."

Sorine's voice rose in aggravation. "Please, Isran. It would take an army of thousands to storm this place; the vampires have nowhere near that size of a force." As Brandon and Gunmar entered the room, they could see Isran shaking his head.

"Walls are only as strong as the men who defend them – it would take two-hundred men, maybe more, to properly defend FortDawnguard. And the vampires are growing in number; every few weeks we hear of a new coven somewhere in Skyrim, and for every one we discover, think how many must slip past our nets? They grow bold, entering towns to seek out victims, enthralling bandits – no Sorine, if we do not stop them, now, there _will_ be thousands. And who will stand against them?"

Inside the room were Gunmar's fellow "officers" of the Dawnguard: Isran, Sorine, Celann, and Florentius. All were standing about a long wooden table, spread with many maps. The quartet turned to face the latecomers and silently waited for them to take their places around the table.

Isran nodded slowly to the pair, and began to resume the discussion when Sorine bulled over him.

"How many do we have, Gunmar?" Taking her meaning at once, the Nord drummed his fingers against the table and lifted his eyes up in thought.

"At last muster, we had one-hundred and six – not counting those here present."

Sorine's eyes flashed as she rounded on Isran. "One-hundred and six. Not even enough – by your own admission – to defend our home and yet you want to throw them all against the vampires' fortress? Folly."

Celann looked dow at the rough map of VolkiharCastle and after studying it a moment, spoke up. "The ferry's the only way to get to the castle, right? They must have to feed, and often. Couldn't we just starve them out?"

"No." Everyone turned to look at Brandon. In past meetings such as this, Brandon had been invited not to assist in the planning, but simply to expedite the process of explaining important tasks. But this time he would not keep silent. "Think about it Celann: sure we could hold that crossing, but Harkon could just bring in supplies by ship. He's been around a long time; don't think he hasn't laid plans against a siege." He paused before continuing. "Isran's right: we can't afford to sit around while Harkon gathers strength, but neither do we ourselves have the capacity to storm his fortress."

Celann crossed his arms and looked challengingly at the younger man. "All right. And how would you know about taking a castle?"

Brandon looked up from the map and stared defiantly at Celann. "I've been around."

Celann laughed harshly. "You've 'been around?' Ha! How old are you anyway, Brandon? How much could you 'get around' in your time?"

Brandon stared at the map and remained silent. Finally, Isran prodded him. "How old are you, Brandon?"

"Nineteen."

"What?" Shouted Sorine. "We've been putting our faith in a—"

"Brandon?" questioned a voice. Soon the voice was followed by a hooded figure stepping into the sunlit room. It was Serana.

"No!" shouted Isran, flipping over their maps to show only their blank, unmarked faces. "Brandon, get her out of here!" The others simply stood, watching the exchange. Brandon looked from Isran to Serana, and he could see the hurt and potential anger simmering in her eyes. He hung his head, and smiled softly. Serana watched him, waiting for his reaction one way or the other. Pushing himself back from the table, Brandon walked slowly over to stand beside the vampiress. As her eyes met his, he smiled, and turned to face the leader of the Dawnguard.

"No, Isran. You're just going to have to trust Serana – I vouch for her, if that makes any difference to you." No one said anything; the others stood on the sidelines, watching the exchange. "Besides, Serana lived in Castle Volkihar for years; you won't find a better informant than that."

Isran made no reply, but the pair locked gazes, and it seemed to the others present that a great contest of wills occurred: the young against the old. Finally, Isran dropped his eyes, and waved a hand in acquiescence.

Brandon looked at Serana and smiled wearily; he could see the unspoken thanks expressed in her eyes and the soft curve of her lips. Together they moved forward and took up their place at the table, side by side. Reluctantly, Isran flipped the maps back over and as if by a signal the room's atmosphere relaxed; all air of contention was dropped.

"All right," said Gunmar, "if we can't force our way into the fortress, where does that leave us?"

"Sunk," contributed Sorine; Isran glared at her, but she merely shrugged. A long silence settled over the assembly until Brandon spoke out.

"Well, if we can't storm it, and we can't starve them out, we'll have to find some way of getting the gate open."

"And how do you suggest we do that?" asked Celann. Brandon flicked his eyes to Serana and then back to Celann's.

"Serana and I will sneak in." Celann laughed, but Isran stared harshly at Brandon, as if to demonstrate the futility of his gesture.

"Don't be a fool. You'd be sniffed out before you took your seventh step."

"No Isran, you don't—"

"I won't stand for it. You'd just be throwing your life away."

"Isran, please, it's the only way."

"No. Absolutely not; that's my final word on it."

"Dammit Isran, if you weren't so—"

Gunmar took Brandon by the arm, as if to restrain him. "That's enough, Brandon; Isran's made his decision." Suddenly the room was drowned in voices, each arguing and shouting and suggesting one course of action or another. Brandon's shoulders slumped, and he collapsed heavily into one of the hardwood chairs so seldom used. He watched the debate with dull eyes, until a smooth, quiet voice penetrated through the layers of chaos.

"We've done it before, Brandon and I; we can do it again." Isran's eyes snapped to Serana and then turned to stare balefully at Brandon. The younger man looked away.

"Is this true: you have been _inside_ Castle Volkihar?" His voice was taut with restrained anger, but Brandon remained mute; a silence fell on the assembled members and Serana stood impassively to the side, watching Brandon with worried eyes.

"Yes, it is true. I have been inside Harkon's citadel – twice." Had Brandon been foolish enough to hope that this answer might appease Isran, he would have been doomed to disappointment. Instead, a fierce blaze was kindled in the other man, and he almost spat with fury.

"And you never thought to tell me of this? You never thought this might be something I would want to hear?"

When he responded, Brandon's voice was calm. "I didn't tell you because I knew you'd react this way." Isran moved around the table to stand directly in front of Brandon; he had regained control of himself, but the deadly calm of his voice betrayed his furious anger.

"And have you not given me reason? You might have been led by your vampire bitch into Harkon's hands; she might have turned you, or enthralled you. We might have let you in unawares, and you would have slain all of us in our sleep." When Brandon did not answer, Isran cuffed him across the ear. "Answer me, boy."

Brandon shot to his feet with a hand on his sword; a pale light kindled in his grey eyes, and it seemed to those around that Isran shrank and Brandon grew, until his shadow filled the room. "If I wanted to kill you, Isran, I could do it, now." Such was his power that the others drew back from him, and even Isran seemed cowed. "You must either trust me or no; decide." Isran held his hand up, shielding his eyes. All was quiet, until at the last Isran nodded his head in submission.

"Yes, I will trust you Brandon. I'm… sorry."

The pale light flickered and went out; Brandon released the hilt of his sword and stepped back from Isran. The young man slumped slightly, exhausted, and passed a hand wearily over his eyes. The others stood stock still, as if from shock; Serana was the first to move, slowly threading her way through the intervening men to stand beside Brandon, supporting him surreptitiously with her shoulder. As they stood together, Brandon felt her hand intertwine itself with his, and he looked at her and she at him. And in that moment, Brandon felt something stir deep inside himself, a feeling that he saw mirrored in her golden eyes; but what it was, he had no name for.

When Gunmar coughed Brandon became suddenly aware of the others, and snapped his eyes back to them. "Well, now that we have that, ah, settled, we still need to decide exactly what we're going to do."

"Brandon's right," said Isran, "the only way to storm Volkihar – which we must do—" Sorine sighed audibly at this. "The only way" Isran repeated, looking askance at the Breton, "is to find some way to get the gates open before we begin our assault." He gestured expansively before continuing.

"This is not like the days of old, when we had a great host at our command; if we emptied the fortress, we could muster perhaps one-hundred men, not to mention Gunmar's trolls – which are no small thing in themselves." At this, Gunmar smiled proudly. "That is not enough even to lay siege, let alone assault the walls. It is subterfuge, not strength, that most often topples a fortress. We will do as Brandon suggests – but we must determine how to do it, and soon. Already we have delayed overlong; tomorrow we must march." With that, Isran backed away from the table and gestured toward Brandon: an invitation to elaborate.

At first, Brandon failed to understand, and it was only as the others stood, watching him expectantly, that he finally grasped Isran's intention. He cleared his throat and stood closer to the table. "Okay. Harkon knows we've set ourselves up to oppose him, and he must know by now that we have Auriel's Bow. He knows or guesses our situation: our strength wanes while his grows. Time is on his side, and he knows it."

"He cannot yet move openly, nor bring his strength fully to bear against us – but that time is coming, and soon. He knows that we must strike now, or never again have the strength to challenge him. He will be prepared and ready for us; he has not lived this long for nothing."

"We have done what we can, but his spies have spread throughout the province, and he is certain to have scouts watching the ferry and our castle; our movement will not go unnoticed, and he will be ready for us. Once we get to Volkihar, we will cross the ferry; in secret, Serana and I will sneak by boat to the old harbor, where we made our entrance before. After we make it through the undercroft, we'll be in the castle itself. Hopefully it'll still be daylight outside, and we'll sneak to the gate, open it, kill the guards, and let the rest of you in. From there…" Brandon paused, and fell silent, his face ashen.

"What about Harkon?" asked Sorine, her eyes roaming between Serana, Brandon, and Isran. The Imperial did not answer. Isran looked at him for a long moment and turned to Sorine.

"We'll deal with him when the time comes. If anyone, it should fall to me to deal with him for once and all." At this declaration Brandon stirred, but said nothing.

"It certainly seems like our only chance. I for one would rather make a fight of it, and not cower behind our walls as the darkness gathers around us." Gunmar seemed to speak for all of them, and each nodded their approval – even Sorine.

"And what of the Jarls?" asked Celann, "Surely they will not countenance an armed force moving across their territory without leave." Isran only shrugged, his eyes hard.

"They must do what they will, but they have chosen to ignore this danger; and if we move swiftly and peacefully, I do not believe they will hinder us."

"Perhaps," answered Celann, "but should we not send messages to them, even to Legate Tullius, seeking aid – or at least permission to enter their lands?"

"There is no time, Celann, we must act now: it would take weeks, maybe, to get our messages out and returned. Harkon will have grown too strong by then.

"No, even if the Jarls do object, it is not for us to abandon our course; it is they who will have to fight or stand aside. The Dawnguard has some legitimacy left, perhaps they will respect that, at least."

A long silence fell on the company, and everyone seemed to understand that the meeting was over, but they all looked to Brandon, as if asking his leave to go. A dynamic had shifted among them, and his presence loomed over them all like the shadow of a king: great but terrible, hard but kind, benevolent but just.

Isran broke the spell first, by folding up the maps, and the crinkling of parchment filled the empty silence of the room. As if waking one by one from some shared dream, the others shook their heads and slowly departed, feeling as if sleep and the following light of morning would not bring safety and comfort, but only hardship and danger.

At the end, in the flickering torchlight, were left only Brandon and Serana, dark shapes standing together: one's hand in the other's.

As he looked into her eyes, those beautiful golden eyes, shadowed by her raven hair, Brandon stood dumbly, uncertain once more. A lock of his short brown hair had fallen to his brow, and Serana gently reached up with her hand to arrange it.

In her eyes Brandon saw understanding, and he was comforted. Silent still, he smiled tiredly and left her. She watched him for a moment, and then followed. Tired as he was, Brandon did not hear her soft, silent steps trailing him past the raucous entry of the main barracks and up the stairs to his room.

Pushing aside the door he stripped his tunic and placed his sword in the corner with his other gear. This done, he collapsed on his bed in the darkness and willed himself to sleep, but it would not come.

A crack of light appeared as the door was pushed ajar. "Brandon?" questioned a voice. He sat up and passed his forearm over his eyes in a terrible weariness which seemed not of the body but of the soul.

"Serana." In wordless response she slid through the door and crossed over to his bed. Brandon watched silently as she sat. Here, now, she saw a different Brandon: a boy, almost, barely a man; not the same Brandon who had cowed the leader of the Dawnguard into submission.

Her closeness was unbearable. So soft she was, and yet with a supple strength as of steel. Her eyes, so fiery bright in the darkness, looked searchingly into his.

"Who are you, Brandon?" He turned his head to escape from those beautiful, terrible eyes, and shrugged his shoulders.

"I am what you see."

She turned his head gently to look at her once more, "And what is it that I see?" Her voice was soft and gentle, probing.

He gave a half smile, and Serana could see the weariness which pervaded his expression. "Only you can know that, Serana."

"I see strength unlooked-for, and kindness, and aid given to those in need."

Brandon grunted dismissively, "We shall see: in the next few days, we shall see." She did not answer, but instead leaned forward and placed her forehead against his.

"You are a good man, Brandon, better, I think, than you know. And whatever happens tomorrow, or the day after, know that I will stand by you always, to whatever end we may come."

There was no response except for his gentle smile; but his eyes betrayed the doubt which gnawed at him. Serana returned his smile, and stroked his hand. Then she left him, the crack of light dwindling to a sliver and then to nothingness.

Brandon lay back in the darkness, wondering and worrying. He remained awake for a long stretch of the night, until, in the small hours of the morning, he slipped into dark and dangerous dreams of a time and place of which he should rightly have had no memory.

It was the light of morning which woke him, and the blood and horror of his dreams was washed away by the smell of roses, and faint recollections of a world filled with light and beauty. It was enough, and he was comforted.

**UH**


	3. A Red Dusk Before the Dawn

**The Sun's Despite: Chapter 3**

**A Red Dusk Before the Dawn**

The pavilion had been positioned per his orders: the entrance facing west, and the small, private awning facing east. It was here that Indoril Nerevar stood, watching as the rosy pale sky of dawn inched its way over the horizon. The sun had not yet shown its face, but that was not what Nerevar had come to see. There, above the pale bands of color excited by the coming sun shone a tiny point of light: the Morning Star; it was this he wished to see: an affirmation, an anointment, a prayer.

_We do not need the Gods_, his friend had said once long ago, in happier days. But how could they be denied? To see that utter, pure simplicity, the reward of faith in that single beautiful moment of dawning light. What greater reward: what greater proof?

The flap fluttered as a light breeze eased its way across the gently rolling hills, bringing the sounds of hammers, and of men and horses: the noises of an army preparing for march. How had it come to this? Chimer and Dwemer at war once again; their alliance in tatters.

He looked again at the Star, hanging so pure and brilliant in the immutable firmament, and it seemed to gleam brighter for a moment, as if in reassurance; but his heart remained troubled.

And with that final fading thought, the sun's edge glanced over the horizon and the Star faded into the unreachable blueness which surrounded it. Nerevar turned and went inside.

A woman's shape was silhouetted against the western entrance. She was clad in flowing raiment of lavender hue which hugged her lissome body and lent an aetherial air to her already gracile movements.

"Almalexia." His voice was stiff, and he fidgeted, suddenly nervous, in the presence of his wife and counselor.

"My lord." She replied, bowing her head slightly in acknowledgement. As she straightened, her eyes roamed anxiously over his slender body; his long white hair bound loosely behind him with a thin brass ferrule, his pale golden skin glowing slightly in the waxing dawn, his hands, unornamented except for a silver and gold ring decorating his left hand: the Moon-and-Star, which lent its epithet to its owner: Indoril Nerevar Mora, Moon-and-Star, once Diarch of Resdayn, now King of the Chimeri and lord of House Indoril.

Even after thirty-two years of war, it was not hard for her to see that her husband was troubled. "Do not worry yourself, my lord. You have done only what was right – what was best for your people."

"Have I?" He answered, and his voice was soft. "I listened to your counsel, and followed what our Lady would have me do, but my heart speaks otherwise." He paused, and silence fell between them as he turned away from her. "Were we always doomed to this fate?"

"So I and all your other advisors foresaw. Had you listened to us at the beginning, we might have made war and so ended. Instead, we have endured nigh thirty years of conflict for a result which might have been gained in three." The quiet words were delivered with a force and purpose which belied their softness.

Nerevar rounded on her, crossing the distance between them in long strides; fire and fury were in his eyes. But despite his sudden ferocity, Almalexia retreated not a step. "Ever it has angered you that I chose to follow my own counsel, and kept my friendship with Dumac Dwarf-King over your advice."

"You think I am jealous? A poor counselor I would be indeed." She laughed then, as if his words were a jest and nothing more; the look in her eyes gave the lie to her words, but Nerevar did not see it. "I seek only to help our people, whose fate you hold in your hands. This foolish alliance with the Dwemer was doomed to fail – all could see it, except you: blinded as you were by your friendship with Dumac."

Nerevar shrugged. "'Foolish?' Perhaps. But there was peace between Chimer and Dwemer for two-hundred years; is not peace worth some risk?"

"Lasting peace: for certain. But was this not merely a delay of the inevitable? The Dwemer are too different, too alien; if not for you and Dumac, this alliance would have disintegrated long ago – indeed it would never have been."

"And is any peace truly lasting? All things must end, in time." He held up his hand as she opened her mouth in reply. "Enough. Have we not said these same things enough times already? Today will be the last battle, and now, for the moment, I would have peace." Their eyes met, and his softened. Slowly, gently, his hand reached out and traced the fine line of her high cheek bone, and cradled the side of her face in his palm.

At the first moment of his touch Almalexia had frozen, unaccustomed after so many years to such intimacy. Almost unconsciously she rested her head against his hand and closed her eyes, smiling softly. Silently, tentatively, he reached down and took her lips with his own. Her eyes fluttered open, and they drew apart, staring deeply into the other's eyes.

They kissed again, chaste at first, measuring, and then suddenly heated and passionate. Almalexia leaned into him, and Nerevar could feel her softness pressed against him and smell the faint perfume she wore; her warmth was intoxicating. Her lips parted, and he tasted her tongue in his mouth.

The kiss broke but they stayed locked in each other's embrace. "Alma, my love," he whispered.

"Nerevar, Nerevar," she murmured in reply. They kissed again, and Nerevar placed his hands on her shoulders, pulling her close.

"My lord?" came a man's voice from outside, "My lord Nerevar, it is time." The tent-flap parted to admit Alandro Sul, Nerevar's standard-bearer. He halted, half in, when he saw his king and queen so closely intimate.

Nerevar looked into the eyes of his love, and saw there hurt, nascent anger, and stillborn desire. He longed to brush aside her hair and to tell her that it would be all right, that things would be as they once were, and that they could live together again without anger or regret.

But instead she pulled away, and Nerevar turned to face Alandro Sul, his eyes already weary. The other man entered fully, and crossed over to the armor stand which lurked in the darkest corner of the tent, like an atavistic golem – a parody – of Nerevar.

Sharing one last regretful look with his wife, Nerevar turned and stood by Alandro Sul. One by one, his shield-companion lifted the pieces of armor from the stand and laid them out, inspecting each, ensuring its integrity. From the far corner, Almalexia watched as Alandro began arming Nerevar, helping her husband into his armor: quilt leggings and gambeson first, followed by hauberk and leggings of mail. Nerevar's arms slipped through the heavy sleeves, and Alandro tied the leather lacings around Nerevar's lean arms and legs, ensuring that the armor was steadied against cut and blow. Next came the scale byrnie, its tiny plates laid over with enameled lettering, wards enchanted to turn harm from their wearer. Girt about his waist was a belt all of silver, never tarnishing, with links shaped like many-pointed stars, and gauntlets of mail were on his hands, bracers about his wrists, greaves about his calves, and about his face was placed a coif of mail and gorget. By his waist was his sword Trueflame, and in his left hand he held a spear, long and keen, and so it ended. From the opposite corner, Almalexia watched and waited, finally turning in sorrow and anger, flying from the fearful spectre of war which her husband had become.

In leaving, she passed another man on his way in. The look that passed between them was, perhaps, outside the custom of greeting, but it went unnoticed by her husband, now deep in conversation with Alandro Sul. Almalexia passed, unnoticed, like a whisper of wind and was gone. The new entrant stood still, looking long after her, engaged, perhaps, in a distant memory of pleasantry.

Looking up now, Nerevar noticed his new visitor and greeted him warmly. "Vivec! Is the army ready?"

Bowing slightly, the king's advisor approached, watching calmly as Alandro handed the king his masked helmet. "The camp is near struck, my lord, and the captains await only you to begin the march."

Nerevar nodded his head in approval, but said nothing. Vivec hesitated, and then asked, "Will Dumac bring his army out to fight?"

Nerevar did not look at him, still seemingly absorbed in making small adjustments to his armor: loosening here, tightening there. Still, he nodded in affirmation, talking while he worked.

"Dumac Dwarf-King will not be there. He is busy in the North, gathering fresh musters to bring down to meet us. He has left Red Mountain in the care of Radek Mzahnch." He paused, and made one final adjustment before meeting Vivec's questioning stare. "Radek is a promising young captain, but in some need of tempering."

"And how, my lord," said a second man just entering, "do you know of him?"

"I know him, Sotha Sil, because he was in my service during the peace."

"I hope, lord, that you have not chosen this moment to strike merely to avoid facing your friend Dumac Dwarf-King in battle." Vivec's voice was restrained, but chiding.

The answering bark of laughter caught Vivec by surprise, and his eyes narrowed.

"I am not yet a dotard, Vivec, yet it seems my counselors are convinced I must be." Waving his hand in a gesture of peace, he quieted. "But enough. What is done is done, and we must face the road before us, lest we stumble." So saying, he strode purposefully from his tent into the morning sun, trailed closely by the still silent Alandro Sul, and left Vivec and Sotha Sil behind in the darkened tent.

The camp was quickly dissolving, its white tents collapsing in on themselves, and extinguished campfires smoking petulantly. All the noises of an army on the march surrounded Nerevar as he stood silently on the crest of that small hill. His standard flapped in the breeze above him: a long, flowing pennant with a single silver star on a blue field, and in the early morning light it seemed as if the azure threads gleamed like sapphires, and the embroidered writing was cut not from cloth, but from solid light.

Nerevar stood contemplating the words written on his banner: prayers for victory and bravery. Behind him, motionless, stood Alandro Sul and the members of his personal guard, arrayed in all the splendor of their wargear.

Suddenly Nerevar turned towards the East and in a flash he drew his sword Trueflame and raised it in salute of the rising sun. And it seemed to those nearby that sunfire danced around the edges of the blade, and the sun itself shone brighter upon their king.

"Azura guide us in this final hour!" And then he laughed, joyously, as he turned and sheathed Trueflame, and his men murmured to one another, for a fey mood had come upon their king, whom they loved.

Their horses were brought, and as the sun rose above the eastern horizon Nerevar's standard danced ahead of the great host, leading the armies of his kindred to death and glory.

* * *

The first day of the siege took the fortress at Red Mountain unawares, and it was with awe that the captains of its garrison watched the Chimeri host issue out of the Wastes. Whispers and rumor ran rampant through the citadel, fearful tales of Nerevar Moon-and-Star, each wondering how he had managed to bring a host intact through the Wastes.

But Radek Mzahnch remained untroubled, an island of calm in a roiling sea of uncertainty. Unlike others in the fortress, he had met the legendary Moon-and-Star, and was not daunted by his adversary's name. He could see what the others could not: the thirst and hunger that ran rampant through Nerevar's camp. No army could pass through the Wastes and come out in any shape to fight – Nerevar Moon-and-Star or not.

If he showed spirit and resisted, he might destroy the strength of the Chimeri Houses for years to come, and achieve the victory that even Dumac Dwarf-King had not reached.

The Chimeri army would be slow, unorganized, demoralized. Their cavalry would be weakened by lack of horses. All they needed was a push, something to start the rapid deterioration from army to rabble; a little push was all that would be needed, but a push must be delivered, and he could not do so sitting inside the walls of Red Mountain.

His captains argued, saying that they should wait until Dumac the king returned with more men; that a siege might break the Moon-and-Star's army just as readily. But Radek shamed them, saying that they feared only a legend, and that here was a chance to end the war once and for all, and it would be the Dwemer who might dictate the terms.

And so they agreed, bowing to their lord's plans, and on the fourth day of the siege, the gates opened, and forth came the Dwemeri armies, their banners waving in the breeze, and their golden armor gleaming in the sun.

Then the captains saw that it was as their lord had predicted, and the Chimeri host fled, abandoning their tents and saving only what gear they could. Watching from afar, they saw, as if in confirmation of Radek's inference, the Chimer fled not towards the Wastes from whence they had come, but towards the Samsi River and the fertile coastlands, some three days' march distant.

There was more order, and less chaos than might have been thought, and the Chimer moved with great speed, so that Radek's host was forced to march at a great pace in order even to keep up with them. When his captain's remarked on this, saying that perhaps it was foolish to pursue the enemy so far so quickly, Radek dismissed their concerns, and ordered them to put aside their fear of Indoril Nerevar, for he was a man like any other.

Radek had been pursuing Nerevar's broken army for a day, when Dumac Dwarf-King arrived at the fortress of Red Mountain early and unlooked-for. At his back were some thousands, Dwemer from the cities of the north, and when he rode up to the gates of Red Mountain, the guards watched him warily.

"And where is Radek Mzahnch, to whom I gave charge the defence of this fortress?" The guards looked askance at one another, until finally their captain stood out from among them and answered his king.

"The fortress has been emptied, lord, and Radek Mzahnch has taken the whole host in pursuit of Nerevar Moon-and-Star, whose own army was routed and flees even now towards the river Samsi."

Dumac swore a terrible oath, and whirled his mount around harshly, ordering his own force in pursuit. Such was their speed, and the anger of their king, that Dumac's small force joined Radek's on the afternoon of the third day. And as they left behind the close mountains, they saw in the distance two armies encamped on the lush fields.

Leaving behind his men to follow as they could, and taking only his mounted guard, Dumac rode forth like the wind; his banner was born behind him and declared his presence for all to see.

As Dumac rode into the camp all was in uproar; Radek Mzahnch was missing, and the captains were barely maintaining order. Still, their discipline was strong, and the sight of Dumac Dwarf-King's banner filled them with strength and the will to resist; and hope was again kindled in their hearts.

For when their army had moved out of the mountains onto the coastal plains, their pursuit of the Chimeri host had continued until they had been forced to stop by the fall of night. In the morning, they saw that by some design, Nerevar Moon-and-Star had brought by another road near ten thousand men to join him, and the other part of his own force was not half so beaten as Radek Mzahnch had led them to believe.

Gathering his captains around him, Dumac spoke softly to them, and reassured them of their bravery and the rightness of their cause; new vitality filled their limbs and all felt, come what may, that they would make a brave end. At day's close, as the armies watched one other, waiting for the coming dawn, Radek Mzahnch was found: he had taken himself to an edge of the camp, and there fallen on his sword in shame. Sorrow filled them, but they deemed it a fitting end, worthy of praise.

* * *

It was midday when the far-sighted Chimeri eyes of Indoril Nerevar and his counselors first espied the banner of Dumac Dwarf-King riding swiftly towards the Dwemeri camp. Nerevar's guard murmured among themselves, and his counselors shifted anxiously in their saddles. Vivec was the first to speak.

"Should we not attack at once, my lord?"

"Peace, Vivec. We will attack when I say, not before."

"But surely, lord, he—" began Sotha Sil.

"Enough! Dumac will come out to parley soon enough, and I would hear what he wishes to say." He looked fiercely at each of his counselors. "Now if The Tribunal has no further objections?" Almalexia remained silent. Nerevar turned his horse and rode off, Alandro Sul and his guard close behind.

The three counselors did not follow, but spoke together in low tones, unremarked by any observer.

They soon saw that it was as their king had predicted: the banner of Dumac Dwarf-King rode out and halted in the space between the armies. Minutes passed, and then Nerevar's own banner rode forth to meet his old friend.

From a distance, many eyes saw the two kings separate themselves from their respective guards, and walk their horses forward to meet each other.

They nodded in greeting, one to another, as if they met in circumstances of no more consequence than a chance encounter in the street.

"It has been too long, Nerevar," said Dumac Dwarf-King; the helm which hung at his saddle was wrought in the visage of a warrior's face, full of fire and fury, a high metal crest was its sole decoration.

"Indeed: it has been far too long since we have seen one another," replied Nerevar, and for another moment they remained silent, watching each other from their saddles.

At last, Dumac spoke. "It seems the issue which lies between us shall at long last be settled."

Nerevar was full of sorrow, but he knew that he must persist; the time had long passed when this day might have been averted. "So it seems, my friend, though I do not think there is doubt about which way it will fall." Dumac's face remained expressionless. "Must you still persist in this foolish endeavour? The Heart of Lorkhan is not a thing for mortals, and what Kagrenac proposes to build… I cannot allow it."

Now a half-smile creased the Dwemer's face, and he posed a question to Nerevar in response. "And were the situation reversed, would you renounce Azura - even in the face of destruction?" Nerevar looked away. "I think not. You ask me to betray me people's very beliefs: that this world, and all that is in it, are for our discovery and use, unburdened by dogma or religious fervor."

"I have done only what was commanded of me, Dumac."

A full smile brightened his face, but did not reach his eyes, full of sadness as they were. "And that is the tragedy, brother. If you did not worship Azura, would you still have started this war?"

Nerevar looked at him unhappily. "Perhaps not; but this Numidium, Dumac… You build for yourselves a thing of such power… and to what use would you put it?"

"That is a question to which I do not know the answer, but it is the way of my people to build and explore: to push boundaries, and ignore the sterile limitations enforced on other races by their worship of inconsequential beings. That is our sacred heritage, and it is that which I must defend above all else - even in the face of our friendship."

This declaration was followed by another lengthy silence. A cloud passed over the sun, and for a moment its shadow passed across the two kings; their banners fluttered in a desultory breeze, and their horses fidgeted and pawed the ground. They watched each other closely, reluctant to break the silence once more; each shared moment was precious to them.

"And that is your final word?" said Nerevar at last.

"It is, Nerevar; it must be."

"So it is with me."

Indoril reached out and they clasped arms. "Fare well, my brother," he said.

Dumac nodded, "And you, brother. May your goddess watch over you in days to come."

With that they parted and rode back towards their camps, never again to meet as mortal men.

* * *

The Tribunal watched Nerevar with cold eyes as he rode swiftly up to meet them, his wargear bouncing with the horse's gait.

"Will he fight?" asked Vivec.

"He will."

"Could they not retreat into the mountains?" It was Sotha Sil who spoke, voicing their shared concern.

Nerevar looked back over his shoulder, at the opposing army, and shook his head. "No, it is too far, and he has few cavalry. We would harry him and pin him against the mountainside where he would be swiftly destroyed." Almalexia shifted in her saddle, and Nerevar turned to look at her. "No," he said again, "he will stay and fight. And he will die; this battle is already decided."

"Then why does he fight?" demanded Almalexia.

"Because he has no choice; there is no other way."

"But it is pointless slaughter. What can he hope to gain?" Her voice was again high and strong.

"He has no more choice in this matter than I," replied Nerevar. "I am commanded to destroy the Numidium, and he must defend it: there is little that either of us may do."

Almalexia looked away, furious, but Nerevar paid her no mind, and taking his leave he rode away, surrounded by his guards and captains, to await and plan for the coming morning.

* * *

By mid-afternoon it was over.

Nerevar Moon-and-Star stood victorious on the battlefield, amidst the corpses and broken banners. The tale of the battle was told on him: his grey charger lay with shattered limbs upon the field, his great spear broken somewhere beneath a Dwemer cavalry officer, bloody wounds showed through rents in his armor, and he was covered in the blood and grime of war.

Alandro Sul walked by Nerevar's side, carrying the torn banner of his lord. The pair were silent for a long while, and the calm which carried across the whole landscape was such that the sounds of the sea could be heard, many miles distant.

Nerevar's eyes roamed about the field, always searching, for what Alandro Sul did not know. For nearly an hour they walked, seemingly aimless, until Nerevar's eyes locked on something and he began to run, heedless of his wounds.

When finally Alandro Sul caught up with him, Nerevar was standing stock-still, staring down; and at last he understood.

There, lying broken in the mud of the churned field lay Dumac Dwarf-King, and his golden banner was broken and trodden into the mire. Even as he stood, Alandro could see the blood running afresh from his lord's many wounds, and decided to break the long silence. "Lord, you must see the healers; you are gravely wounded."

But Nerevar shook his head, wordless, and stood over his fallen brother. After a moment, he leant down and gently removed Dumac's broken helm, casting it aside, and then gathered the slain king into his arms and carried him from the field.

Many men witnessed their lord and wondered at the sight; but they had business of their own: comrades to give to the pyres, and wounded to tend. Even Alandro left him in those final moments, as Nerevar built a pyre for his great friend, and set about him his arms and armor. Nerevar lit with his own hand the fire which licked and consumed the flesh of the brother he had never had, and as the fire burned, he cast himself to the ground and sat with head bowed for a long while.

When he returned, it was with cool eyes that his counselors watched him. Little ceremony had accompanied the arrival of Lord Voryn Dagoth when he rejoined his brethren and rode up to meet his lord; he showed little surprise at finding his king standing on the field of a great battle. Nerevar paid him little attention, standing wearily to one side, but his counselors turned eagerly toward Dagoth, and they drew apart to speak softly together for some minutes.

Alandro Sul watched as a long line of shackled Dwemer, clad now only in rough and bloody tunics, were led into the Chimeri camp. He wondered what fate awaited them, and the Dwemer as a whole. Turning to look at his king, who now leaned heavily on his sword, he asked "What will happen to them, lord?"

Nerevar answered without taking his eyes from the chained, worsted soldiers. "They will go free, eventually. We have today destroyed the last vestiges of Dwemer strength. We will return and break their fortress at Red Mountain and put an end to this Numidium. Once that is done… they will be free."

"But surely lord…" he paused, and Nerevar turned his head to regard him with piercing eyes.

"'Surely' what, Alandro?" he questioned.

"Surely the Dwemer will not relinquish this desire; surely they will try again?"

Nerevar nodded slowly. "And perhaps they will. If they do, we will stop them."

"But…"

"What would you have me do, Alandro?" Now his voice was sharp, and his eyes flashed. "Hunt down and extinguish the life of all Dwemer from this world? Even were that possible, I would not wish such a crime to rest upon my conscience. Would you?"

Alandro looked back towards the bedraggled prisoners and lowered his eyes. "No, lord."

"No, nor I."

In that moment the sound of war horns echoed across the battlefield, and all eyes turned to the South where now stood a great host, with many men and banners: twenty thousands at least.

Nerevar leaned now more heavily on Trueflame, and its leaf blade sunk deeper into the earth. Passing his hand wearily over his eyes, he looked at Alandro but spoke as if to himself. "This is ill fortune indeed."

"Who are they, lord?" questioned Alandro, peering into the distance trying to discern the banners of the new-come host.

"The Nords, come once again to press their claim on our land; King Wulfharth leads them. Great must be their desire! See: Orsimer are ranked on their right." He raised up his eyes into the sky. "Why today, of all days? Much of our strength is already spent, and I am weary." Letting his eyes sink once more towards the earth, he stood with head bowed for a moment.

"Take the bulk of our cavalry along the right, I will rally the center."

"But, lord…"

"My house guard will stay with me. Go! And may Azura guide our hands. We shall need her!" And with those final words he sheathed Trueflame and ran off to rally his captains. Alandro turned and likewise ran to find the cavalry officers who would now be under his command.

Nerevar had barely time to organize his officers and get them ordering their men into a battle line; even before they had rightly formed, Nord arrows began to fall among them, felling many. Captains shouted and yelled above the cries of the wounded and dying, and the Chimer archers began to deal out punishment in turn. But their volleys were thin and sporadic, for they had expended much of their ammunition in the earlier battle, and the Nord archers disrupted their attempts to loose in orderly volleys.

The Nord infantry advanced swiftly under the barrage, and few arrows found their mark. Nerevar had managed to form some semblance of a line nearest to the Nord army, but further to the North his captains were still trying to get their men chivvied into rank.

The rain of arrows slackened as the Nord line closed with the Chimer, and Nerevar led a countercharge, his now-tattered banner blowing bravely in the stiff breeze which swept in from the North. On the right, Alandro led the greater part of the Chimer cavalry against that of the Nords, and they clashed in a great clamor of arms and men and horses. In those places the battle seemed equal, but on the left of Nerevar's army things fared not so well. There the captains had not fully formed their men, and the brutal onslaught of the orcs nearly shattered their spirit. The line wavered.

In the center, Nerevar fought with redoubled strength as a man possessed, and his household guard felt their limbs renewed and their spirits lifted at the sight of their lord so potent and skilled at arms. But the enemy feared him, for his wroth was terrible, and when Nerevar slew their captain they forgot the promises of Wulfharth, and trembled before the elven king.

In this moment, when all stood at a balance, the captain commanding the Chimeri cavalry reserve charged, passing through the lines of Chimer infantry in the center and striking home into the dispirited Nords. On the right, they watched in horror as Wulfharth's banner dipped, swayed, and fell. With their captain dead, and now their king, the fearsome shock of heavy cavalry broke them, and they routed.

Alandro's cavalry pressed the attack on the right, and soon the Nords there fled, leaving only the orcs intact upon the field. They saw the flight of the Nords, but cared not, for they were a fierce and stern company, and their captain great and terrible.

From his position in the line, Nerevar could see both his left and right flanks, and he knew that swift action was needed to save the soldiers opposing the orcs; if they routed, and the orcs were allowed to flank the remainder of his army, disaster might yet occur. Alandro and his men were foolishly pursuing the ragged remnants of the Nord cavalry, and only Nerevar's force could intervene on the left.

Rallying his thrice-weary men, Nerevar led them around the flank of the orc line and took them in the rear, surrounding them. Now it was but dirty knife-work; the orcs knew their only hope was to resist and cut their way out. At their head was their captain, a full hand taller than his brethren around him. He fought his way towards Nerevar's banner, and slew three of his household guards before bringing a massive two-handed sword down upon Nerevar's helm.

Trueflame flashed, and the orc captain's sword broke and fell in twain. Nerevar swept his sword across his adversary's chest, felling him. With a roar, the orcs in a fury redoubled their assault and almost succeeded in forcing their way free from the exhausted Chimer. But at last the final orc fell, and the Chimer stood mazed by their weariness, and Nerevar stood amongst them, the few remaining members of his household guard arrayed about him.

By evening the funeral pyres lit the night with a torrid orange glow. It was only now that Nerevar was told of Alandro Sul's great duel with King Wulfharth, and how he had been blinded by a Shout just before he cut down the Nord king. Great was Nerevar's sorrow at seeing his comrade so crippled, and though healers were sent for, the blindness could not be cured.

When at last the camp had been organized and watches set, Nerevar Moon-and-Star collapsed in his pavilion and knew no more until he was woken by the sunlight of late morning.

* * *

The march back to the fortress at Red Mountain passed swiftly, and it was with dismay that the remaining Dwemer garrison watched Nerevar Moon-and-Star's army issue once more out of the hills around them.

News of their king's defeat had already reached them from those who had fled the field after Dumac's defeat. Most of those to escape had returned by other roads to their homes and families, but some had made their way back to rejoin the depleted garrison at Red Mountain. They were now perhaps four-hundred strong.

Nerevar rode up to the gate, accompanied by the last remaining members of his house guard. Many Dwemer soldiers stood clustered about the gate, watching the delegation below with mixed expressions of defiance and apprehension. Nerevar inspected each of them closely, and then raising his voice to a shout he called out to them. "Where is your lord? Where is Kagrenac? Let him come forth, for I would speak with him."

The guards turned to each other, clearly debating; after a few minutes, one of them turned and disappeared from the battlements. Some twenty minutes passed, and Nerevar's new horse pawed the ground and tossed his head impatiently. At last, a richly dressed Dwemer appeared and glared down at his visitors.

"And what would you say to me, Nerevar Moon-and-Star, that has not already been said?"

"Your work must end, Kagrenac. I am commanded to destroy the Numidium, and I will fulfill that trust. Do not waste your lives in foolish resistance; open your gates and your people will go free – even you Kagrenac, though my heart bids otherwise. Resist, and it will go ill for you and those under you."

At this, Kagrenac spat at him, and his voice was harsh and cold. "And what would you know of such matters Moon-and-Star? Pah: plaything of the Daedra. Go back to your citadel and grovel before your mistress; you speak of matters and concerns far beyond your comprehension."

But Nerevar remained calm. "That may be," he said, "but I must do as I am bid. Surrender your fortress and you will be spared. Consider carefully your next words."

Kagrenac did not answer, but whirled and vanished from sight. In turn, Nerevar wheeled his horse and rode back to his camp; within the hour the assault had begun.

During the march back to Red Mountain, Nerevar had ordered the construction of a ram, and Sotha Sil had laid spells of breaching and destruction upon it; its point had been shaped and hardened, partly by craft and partly by magic. Many ladders had also been prepared, and soon Nerevar's exhausted army, heartened for one final push, crossed the empty spaces between the camp and the enemy's walls.

The defenders fought bravely, but there were too few of them. The ramparts held for a time, and the gate was the first to fall, shivered by the battering ram. Nerevar led the charge through the breach, and his cavalry cleared the way for the infantry to follow. While securing their foothold inside the fortress, a Dwemer leaped out of the darkness bearing a massive two-handed sword.

Nerevar had not time to react before the soldier cut the legs out from under his horse with one massive blow. He tumbled then, his helm flying from his head as he fell heavily to the ground, miraculously avoiding his horse's massive bulk.

Nerevar jumped to his feet, too slow, and the Dwemer sliced at him, catching his left leg and scoring a deep cut through the mail and quilt protecting it. His leg gave out, and Nerevar fell to one knee, blocking a killing stroke, and managed to force himself to stand. The second blow he took on his shield, and it shattered, but that caused his opponent to overextend and come off-balance. Beating the greatsword aside, Nerevar brought Trueflame down on the head of his enemy and clove it in two.

Already flames were kindling in the houses and buildings inside the fortress' walls, and Nerevar looked around for his household guard, but they were gone. Instead, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Voryn Dagoth, surrounded by men in the livery of House Dagoth.

"Voryn!" He yelled to make himself heard over the sounds of fighting. The other man turned to look as Nerevar ran up to meet him. "You know where the Numidium is – where Kagrenac will be?"

Voryn Dagoth's eyes glinted, but he nodded, and the pair ran off into the darkness, guarded only by Dagoth soldiery.

* * *

How Dagoth had uncovered the paths and chambers of the Dwemer stronghold, Nerevar did not know, but eventually they made their way further and further underground, into what Nerevar felt must be the heart of the mountain. The heat was suffocating.

They turned a corner and entered a large room with a high ceiling vaulted by the living rock. Opposite them stood a giant red stone, shaped almost like a living heart; and before it stood Kagrenac, conspicuous in his golden robes, richly decorated with spirals and geometric designs. On one hand, he wore a great golden gauntlet, and in that hand he held a massive hammer.

Paying no heed to his visitors, Kagrenac struck the red heart stone a heavy blow with his hammer, and a pure tone reverberated throughout the chamber, and Nerevar could not quite convince himself that what he heard did not sound like the beating of some massive, unearthly heart.

"Kagrenac!" He shouted, and his words seemed weak and inadequate to fill the void left by the single beat of that stony heart. The Dwemer let the hammer fall to the floor before he turned and smiled maliciously. At his feet lay another tool, resembling in some ways a short-sword, but of strange design and craftsmanship.

"Too late, Moon-and-Star," he said, and lifting the new tool to the stone, he vanished; the gauntlet and sword fell onto the stone floor in a clash.

Nerevar only stood in shock, leaning heavily on his sword, for his wounds were taking their toll; he did not see the wild light in Dagoth's eyes as he rushed forward to inspect the things which Kagrenac had left behind.

"What are those, Voryn? What has he done?"

At first Dagoth did not answer, consumed with fascination for Kagrenac's Tools. Nerevar limped closer to him, unaided by any of Dagoth's guards. "Answer me, Voryn." The wild light faded a little from Dagoth's eyes, but his gaze never left the triptych of tools.

"This is Lorkhan's Heart, and these are Kagrenac's Tools which he forged to harness the Heart's power. This is indeed a prize beyond the Numidium! Do you know what could be done with these?" The wild light was back, and he seemed to be talking to himself more than Nerevar. "Power, Nerevar, power beyond—" He stopped himself and looked warily at his king. "We should take these with us, lord, and return them for study."

"Where has Kagrenac gone, Voryn? What happened to him?" Dagoth shrugged his shoulders.

"Does it matter?"

Nerevar shook his head; it was becoming more difficult for him to think, and his judgement was clouding. In his heart he knew that these things should be destroyed, but his heart had led him astray before, hadn't it? Perhaps Almalexia had been right, perhaps they had all been right, and his alliance with the Dwemer had been folly from the start: doomed, and he had led his people into greater slaughter because of it. He shook his head again, trying to clear the cobwebs which seemed to be clogging his thoughts. "I… I think… I do not know."

And then Voryn Dagoth looked at his wounded king kindly, and with sadness, and helped him to stand, saying, "Perhaps, my lord, you should seek the advice of your counselors, for your wounds are grave, and they are wise in many things."

Nerevar nodded unsteadily, saying only "Keep these things safe until my return," and limped out of the chamber, followed by two of Dagoth's soldiers, who did not aid their king, though he stumbled more than once. And though he had looked on his king with friendship, when Voryn Dagoth turned once more to the Heart and Kagrenac's Tools, his eyes were wild and filled with lust.

Nerevar managed to make his way once more out of the mountain, and through the ravaged city full of looting soldiers and dying men. None paid him heed, and it was long before he found his way to his counselors.

They watched passively as he approached, and contained their growing excitement as he apprised them of what had happened beneath Red Mountain, and the spoils which had been taken. But they concealed from their king the fact that all Dwemer living and dead had vanished from the city.

"Voryn advises that we should keep these Tools for study, but I do not know… Perhaps they should be destroyed. Or that is what my heart tells me." The Tribunal looked worriedly at each other, and Sotha Sil quickly spoke.

"It seems to me that we should keep them for study, but we cannot decide here, lord; if we are to guide you in this matter, we must see these things for ourselves." The others nodded and murmured in agreement. Though Nerevar was troubled, his mind was not yet clear, and he felt that it was the advice of his counselors that he must now trust.

"Very well, I will abide by your decision. But however you choose you must swear to me now, and in Azura's name, that should you keep these Tools and preserve the Heart, you will not use them as the Dwemer did. Or death take you."

"I so swear." Said Vivec, and Sotha Sil and Almalexia echoed him. Still troubled, Nerevar turned, and led them into the heart of the mountain.

When they finally entered into the chamber, Dagoth was still there, and his guards were arrayed around the room. Then they heard Dagoth's voice speaking in a low murmur: "But when Trinimac and Auriel tried to destroy the Heart of Lorkhan it laughed at them. It said, 'This Heart is the heart of the world, for one was made to satisfy the other.' So Auriel fastened the thing to an arrow and let it fly long into the sea, where no aspect of the new world may ever find it."

"Voryn," said Nerevar, in cautious tones, "I have brought them." But no answer came, and Nerevar saw that Dagoth was crouched beside the Heart, inspecting the Tools. Nerevar's already troubled heart grew dark, and he strode as best he could to stand behind Dagoth. From that short distance, he could better see the short-sword's blade, and it seemed to shift and swim, as if made of solid light.

"Agh, half a minute," muttered Dagoth, but Nerevar put his hand on Dagoth's shoulder and made to pull him away from the Heart. With a cry, Dagoth picked up the blade and swung at Nerevar, and the arcane weapon slashed across his chest. The metal parted before the blade like silk, but the enchanter who had forged that armor long ago had done his work well, and the spells placed upon each scale burst and absorbed the better part of the blow, and though a huge rent had been torn in Nerevar's armor, the blade had not cut deeply into his flesh.

As Nerevar staggered back, Dagoth dropped the blade with a shout, as if bitten by it, and suddenly all were in uproar. A wild melee ensued as Dagoth's guards closed in on Nerevar and the Tribunal, but the three were not defenseless, and they slew many until the guards lost heart, and Dagoth, gravely wounded, saw Nerevar bear down on him and quailed and fled.

Nerevar's heart was burdened with sorrow, and Dagoth's betrayal troubled him deeply; and though his mind was still clouded, he regretted now his promise to abide by the Tribunal's decision.

They stood together as the blood of their enemies ran red on the rocky floor. "What now should we do?" asked Nerevar. "Do you still believe that these things should be retained for study?"

"I do, lord," answered Vivec, "now more than ever. If we do not understand their function we may ever have cause to fear some new recurrence of this craft."

Now Almalexia took up the argument. "I agree, my lord; we fear what we do not understand, and we cannot allow fear to let us destroy tools of such potency. Think of the things we might accomplish with such power!"

Then Sotha Sil put forward his own voice. "These tools are but keys to greater knowledge, my lord. Dagoth betrayed you because of his own pride; we would be fools indeed to condemn the instruments on behalf of their master. Let us keep them and use them to increase the potency of our own people."

Nerevar listened to them and felt weary, his wounds burned and his muscles ached, and he wished to end and live among his people in peace once more. With a last effort of will he shook off the weariness, and faced The Tribunal.

"I have heard your words, and your counsel. But I will seek also the advice of Azura, who it was that commanded me to put an end to the Numidium."

Almalexia's eyes blazed with fury, but Sotha Sil placed a restraining hand on her arm, and turned to Nerevar. "That is wise lord. But we cannot ask the Lady to manifest herself while we are still arrayed for war. We have none of the ritual devices." Then glancing slyly at Vivec, he added, "Stay here, lord, and rest yourself; we will gather what is needed." Nerevar nodded in agreement, and Sotha Sil stayed by him for a moment, and healed what he could.

The Tribunal left quickly, gathering up those things which were necessary for calling the attention of their Goddess, telling Nerevar's captains that their lord wished to seek an audience with Azura, and that they should be left undisturbed.

When they returned they were dressed in the ritual garments, and bore candles and the other implements of their religion. Almalexia helped her husband to divest himself of his arms and armor, and these they piled far away from the summoning place. Then she dressed him in his rich robes, and Sotha Sil prepared the incantations, and Vivec set out the candles, and lit them, and then they stood back as their lord began to pray.

But as he began, Nerevar felt that something was wrong. His robes clung sickly to him, the smoke of the candles was harsh and acrid, and Sotha Sil's incantations were hard and coarse. Nerevar tried to rise, but his feet caught in the garments, and the smoke addled him, and the incantations deadened his senses, and then he felt a blow to his head, and he knew no more.

* * *

When he awoke, his mind was clearer, and his wounds were only a dull ache. He found himself hanging by his arms, tied to one of the stony pillars of the chamber. Vivec grabbed hold of his hair and lifted up Nerevar's head to look into his eyes. "No, Nerevar, you can't die yet; we're not done with you." He laughed then, and the sound chilled Nerevar's blood. An insane light was in Vivec's eyes, and as Nerevar looked around, he could see that the same light was reflected in the eyes of each of the Tribunal.

"Why?" he croaked, his voice dry and parched.

"'Why?'" Vivec echoed in a mocking tone. "Why does anyone do anything?" He answered his own question before Nerevar could respond. "Power, that's why. You have no idea what the Heart of Lorkhan is capable of, do you?"

"We could become gods! No longer bound to be subservient to some pitiful spawn of Oblivion! The Chimer would have gods of their own making, that would be mindful and attentive of their people."

"There are many things you don't know, Nerevar." Vivec sidled up to him and spoke softly. "For example, did you know that I've been your wife's lover for years?"

Nerevar shook his head, "No, I don't believe it," he said defiantly, but Vivec forced his head up again and turned him to face Almalexia; she was naked now, and it seemed to Nerevar that she had smeared blood over her breasts and face, and she stared at Vivec with a wanton look.

"See her, Indoril?" he whispered. "Isn't she beautiful? She'd come to me like that, when you'd rejected her, or were busy in council or fighting your war. She'd come to me, hot and ready, begging me. So I'd take her, and she would moan like a whore and scream my name." Nerevar stared dumbly, and shook his head.

"Oh. You still don't believe me? Maybe I should take her right now and show you." He walked over towards Nerevar's wife, who watched as he approached and licked her lips lasciviously. Vivec looked over at Nerevar in triumph and the pair embraced, kissing fiercely, and sank to the floor already entwined. Then Nerevar saw Sotha Sil approach them, and he was naked too; so Nerevar closed his eyes and turned his head away.

"No, no, no!" Shouted Vivec as he ran over to Nerevar and yanked his head around. "You have to watch, Nerevar! You have to see!"

Sotha Sil went and pulled a dagger from inside his piled robes and handed it to Vivec, who held Nerevar's face steady, and traced the blade around the skin of his face. When he was done, Nerevar felt Vivec's fingers grabbing for purchase at his skin, and with a jerk, Vivec pulled down. The pain was as nothing Nerevar had felt in all his long years of war and suffering, and his scream of anguish echoed through the cavern and through the heart of Red Mountain. But The Tribunal laughed, and Vivec held up the skin of Nerevar's face for him to see, and Nerevar found that he could not blink, and his eyes grew dry and pained.

Almalexia pulled Vivec away back into her embrace, and soon the moans and cries of The Tribunal filled the air, and though Nerevar tried to weep, no tears would come. When they had finished, Vivec again returned to Nerevar's side, laughing carelessly.

"And now for our last performance!" he yelled, and cutting Nerevar's bonds, they moved their betrayed king towards the place where he had tried to summon Azura such a short time ago. Nerevar knew that these were his final moments, and now was his last and only chance to escape – however slim.

With strength unexpected, he threw off the restraining arms of Sotha Sil and Vivec, and ran towards where his wargear had been piled. If he could reach Trueflame, he might yet save himself. His feet hammered on the floor, and the echoes of his footfalls sounded like the footsteps of some mighty giant. Almost there, he reached out his hand to snatch up his sword when Vivec tackled him, bringing him down agonizingly against the hard stone floor. Pinned, Nerevar reached out for Trueflame, but it was too far for him to grasp.

"Well, well, more life left in him than I thought."

"We should teach him a lesson for trying to run." said Sotha Sil, "Cut off his feet; only Gods should run!" And he laughed insanely. Vivec held Nerevar down, and Sotha Sil helped him, as Almalexia slowly walked over and picked up Trueflame, dragging the point along the floor.

She stood over him, sword raised, when Nerevar asked in a hoarse whisper, "Why, Alma?"

She paused and looked at him, considering. "All power demands sacrifice." And then she cut down, and Trueflame cut through his calves, and Nerevar screamed in agony.

Sotha Sil lifted him up and together with Vivec they carried him back over to the summoning place, whispering, "Don't worry, my lord, it will all be over soon."

Almalexia had left them for a moment, and when she returned, she bore one of the great barbed spears that had armed Dagoth's guards. She handed it to Vivec, and they kissed again, even as she still held the severed feet of her husband.

Nerevar was then let down, and his agonized stumps took the weight of his body, and he crumpled, whimpering in pain, but Sotha Sil grabbed him and held him up. Almalexia watched them joyfully as Vivec took the spear from her and walked around behind Nerevar, now crazed with pain and grief.

So great was Nerevar's agony that when Vivec put the spear through his heart he reacted not at all, only slumping forward as the last vestiges of life left his limbs.

Then Vivec let go of the spear, and dumped his king's body down onto the ground, where his blood pooled about their feet.

Then they all laughed and clasped hands, and ran like eager children towards Lorkhan's Heart, which glowed redly at their approach. They took up Kagrenac's Tools and completed the last stages of their rituals, and they felt power flood their limbs, and they knew that at long last they were become gods. Suddenly there was a great cry, and over Nerevar's body appeared Azura, and she stared down in horror at her fallen champion.

Casting herself down beside him, she gathered up the ruined corpse of Nerevar into her arms, and stared hatefully at the Tribunal. They watched her, motionless, as the blood and gore of Nerevar's wounds soaked her blue robes.

"You have done great wrong, and you will come to rue this day dearly, for my champion will come again, and your godhead will be turned to ashes around you. So I give my oath before Oblivion." Such was the cold fury in her voice and face that at first the Tribunal quailed, but suddenly Sotha Sil laughed, and the cruel sound put fresh heart in his companions, and they no longer felt afraid.

Then Sotha Sil addressed the Daedra, saying, "The old gods are cruel and arbitrary, and distant from the hopes and fears of the Chimer. Your age is past. We are the new gods, born of the flesh, and wise and caring of the needs of our people. Spare us your threats and chiding, inconstant spirit. We are bold and fresh, and will not fear you."

Azura was saddened, for she knew that Sotha Sil's words were true, but her grief and rage over her fallen champion persisted, and she answered angrily. "What you have done here today is foul beyond measure and you will grow to regret it, for the lives of gods are not what mortals think and matters that weigh only years to mortals weigh on gods forever." And in that moment Azura cursed them, and their eyes turned red as the fires of Vvardenfell, and their skin the color of its spume. "Let this mark remind you of your true selves who, like ghouls, fed on the nobility, heroism, and trust of their king."

As they looked anew at one another, they cowered, and hid their new faces, and darkness took them for a long while. When their sight returned, they saw that Azura was gone, and with her the corpse of Nerevar and all his wargear. Then they put on brave faces and spoke comforting words to each other, and thus returned to their people to lead them as new gods.

And it is said that blind Alandro Sul and the members of his house found their lord lying in state, dressed in all his arms and armor, and they bore him down to the Ashlands, and there laid him on a pyre with all reverence due their beloved king. So passed Indoril Nerevar Moon-and-Star, first Diarch of Resdayn, as he was last.

* * *

_Brandon woke, still feeling the spearpoint bursting through his chest, and found himself lying naked in a bed, warm and soft. This was not his room in the Dawnguard's fortress. Sitting up and looking around, Brandon saw that he was in a large room sumptuously furnished with soft-looking chairs and tall bookcases filled with volumes. The walls were of a white stone that seemed almost to glow in the gentle light of morning._

_There was a single entrance only, an archway built into the wall. Standing on either side were two women, tall and fair, stern of face, clad in golden mail and bearing longswords at their hips._

_"Hello?" He prompted. They looked at him, and one of them smiled kindly, but they did not respond._

_"Greetings, Guardian," came a gentle voice, which was soon followed by the appearance of a lithe young woman in the entryway. Her long hair was auburn, and it fell down her back in waves of curls. "The Lady said you would be awake; now that you have finished your rest she would like to see you. Will you follow me?"_

_Brandon nodded hesitantly and started to rise, but, remembering his nakedness, he quickly fell back among the sheets. "Do you have any clothes I could wear?" The woman smiled indulgently and nodded, gesturing towards a cabinet in one corner of the room. When Brandon did not move, she looked at him questioningly. "Would you mind…?" he trailed off, and motioned with his hand, indicating that they should turn their backs to him while he dressed. They giggled, but complied, and Brandon quickly rushed over to the cabinet and hastily dressed in the soft white tunic and leggings laid out for him. The stone floor under his feet was warm and pleasant, not cold and drafty like Castle Dawnguard._

_When he was dressed, he approached the woman and she smiled again at him, and led him silently from the room, trailed at a distance by the two golden-armored women. They walked for a time through verdant gardens, and Brandon gazed about him in awe. Eventually she led him to a small veranda, furnished with benches of the same white stone he had seen everywhere, and roofed with vines and flowers for which Brandon had no name._

_It was there that she waited for him, and her presence took his breath away. She was seated gracefully on one of the benches, and the light glinted from her long white hair. About her head were pale silver roses set in a crown, and she wore a gossamer dress which seemed to fade and shift between blues of a thousand hue and variety._

_The other women bowed low and departed in silence, but Brandon stood motionless and stunned as she turned and watched him slyly out of the corners of her eyes._

_Then she smiled and rose to greet him. "You are very welcome here, Guardian," she said, and her voice was soft and clear._

_Brandon shook himself and bowed low. "I am ever at your service, Lady." She laughed at that, not mocking but kindly._

_"Mortals have grown more courteous of late." Then she motioned towards the bench from which she had risen. "Come, sit and talk with me for a while."_

_Brandon sat beside her, awkwardly. "What would you ask of me, Lady?"_

_She gave him another brilliant smile, but this one was tinged with sadness. "Little enough, for in truth you have done much already." Now she turned to face him directly, and her eyes were piercing. "But I know that your own heart is troubled, and you would ask things of me. Do not be afraid: I will answer as I may."_

_"I dreamed…"_

_"Do not speak of it," she interjected, and Brandon paused, "I know of what you dreamed."_

_"Why didn't you save him?"_

_She sighed and stared out across the gardens, her eyes shadowed. "I spoke truly in that chamber: 'matters that weigh only years to mortals weigh on gods forever' I said; the pain I felt when Vivec killed Nerevar will never leave me." Her voice was thick with grief, but she continued. "Do you think that if I could have saved him, I would not have done so? Many and varied are my concerns, and I cannot keep watch over all – even those whom I love." She looked at Brandon again, and he blushed and studied the flowers intently._

_"But that is not all that burdens you." She reached out and turned his face towards her, smiling in encouragement. Her touch was cool and gentle, but Brandon felt suddenly a great reluctance come over him, and he only looked at her sadly. They sat there together for a long while, until finally Brandon mustered his courage._

_"I am afraid, Lady, of what I will find in that castle."_

_"All men are afraid who are wise enough to understand the peril into which they walk, but choose to go anyway." She stroked his hair with her hand. "Were you not also afraid when you fought with Alduin?"_

_Brandon nodded, but did not speak._

_"Perhaps you sense, from afar, that this time will be different. This time, there will be no one to stand by you, no one to lift you up should you falter: you will have no secret weapon, no Dragonrend to slay your enemy." She held up a hand to forestall his next words. "Do not mistake my meaning: you are a valiant warrior and a noble soldier; I do not mean to cast doubt on your accomplishments." Then, standing, she took Brandon's hand and pulled him gently to his feet. "Come, let us walk together, for the sea may heal many woes."_

_And Brandon found that indeed the garden in which they stood was placed not far distant from the sea, and together they walked gladly for a time in silence. At last she spoke. "Our time grows short; is there any last thing you would ask of me?"_

_The words were out before he could stop them. He sank to his knees in the soft sand, pleading. "Please, Lady, help me." She turned to him, and she was not wroth nor standing in judgment of his weakness; pale she seemed, and shrunken as a new-withered flower._

_"I have done much already in arming you with Minuial; but even were I able to send down a host of my servants to assault Castle Volkihar, you would still be in danger. And such gifts are dangerous, for their full consequence cannot be seen by any man."_

_"If it is counsel you seek, I will say one thing: take with you the bow of Auriel. I know you debate with yourself about taking it, and perhaps delivering the enemy's prize unto him. But this weapon will aid you greatly; and should you fail to kill Lord Harkon, he will find the bow eventually."_

_The surf rolled about their feet as they stood facing one another, the light glinting off the undulating waves of the sea. She reached out and brushed her hand down his chest, reaching inside his tunic and pulling out the silver token which hung from the thin chain around his neck. It was an amulet of fine craftsmanship, wrought as a thin sliver of a crescent moon. "You already bear my token, and there is little else I can give you which would aid you in any way." Then she paused, and looked deeply into Brandon's eyes._

_"In some traditions, it was customary for a lady to give her champion a favor to carry into battle, so that he might think of her and be strengthened by the memory." She composed herself, and faced Brandon directly, "So, Brandon of Cyrodiil, would you accept this Lady's favor?" And saying this she held out a perfect rose, but the bud was black as night._

_Brandon bowed awkwardly, and received the rose, folding it gently within his tunic. Then she drew close and kissed him, and her lips were soft and tasted of mint, and she smelled of roses._

_Long before he might have wished, she pulled away and watched him sadly. "Farewell," she said._

_Brandon woke once more to the cold grey interior of Castle Dawnguard. He sighed, his heart heavy at the lost beauty of Moonshadow, but the blood and pain of his dreams had been washed away by the still-present smell of roses, and the light and beauty of Azura._

_And as he looked up at the grey morning slanting in through his tiny window, Brandon felt something against his heart. He reached into his tunic and pulled out a single perfect black rose. Brandon smiled, and his heart lifted, and he was no longer afraid._

**UH**


	4. Wise Men at the End

**The Sun's Despite: Chapter 4**

**Wise Men at the End**

_"Take off your hat, boy— and stand up straight."_

_Brandon took off his hat, pushed his shoulders back, and tried to look soldierly. Seated behind his desk, the centurion watched him appraisingly, a serious look on his weathered face._

_"Hadvar tells me you both were at Helgen when the dragon attacked." His voice was even and measured; any disbelief the centurion held about the reality of Hadvar's story was carefully masked._

_"I was."_

_Hadvar nudged him. "Say 'sir' when you're speaking to the centurion."_

_"I was, sir— that is, we were, sir."_

_"And why were you at Helgen? I'm told Ulfric Stormcloak himself had been captured and was about to be executed when the dragon attacked." Brandon met the centurion's eyes, and they were keen and measuring; he was sure that the other man was fully aware of the circumstances of his capture._

_"I was captured by Hadvar's patrol, and brought to Helgen with the other prisoners." Brandon paused, and Hadvar shifted and gave him a look. "… Sir. They were about to cut off my head when the dragon attacked. Hadvar and I managed to escape."_

_The centurion looked harshly at Hadvar. "You didn't stay to fight?"_

_"It was a dragon, sir. Have you ever fought a dragon?" The centurion grunted and turned back to Brandon._

_"How old are you, son?"_

_"Fifteen."_

_"Fifteen, sir," corrected Hadvar._

_"Fifteen, sir."_

_"And your name?"_

_"Brandon— sir."_

_The centurion looked at him oddly, as if he were a strange specimen just come to light. "Brandon? That's an unusual name." Brandon glanced briefly at Hadvar, and then spoke._

_"Yes, sir, my father was from High Rock; he fought in the Great War, and was given land in Cyrodiil when he was discharged. That's where he met my mother."_

_The centurion nodded, a kind expression on his face. "And your parents… where are they now?" Brandon's shoulders slumped, and he seemed small and defeated. _

_"Dead."_

_"I see," said the centurion. "Can you fight, son?"_

_Brandon nodded. "I know how to use a sword, spear and shield as well as any man, sir, and my father taught me the bow."_

_"So your father was a hunter?"_

_"Yessir."_

_"A fair hand in the woods: tracking animals, trapping, that kind of thing?"_

_"Yessir."_

_"Good." The centurion now turned to Hadvar. "Did he have any gear with him?"_

_The legionary shook his head and gestured demonstratively towards the small boy standing beside him. "No sir, just the clothes on his back."_

_The centurion shrugged and looked penetratingly at Brandon. "It's a hard life, son: not a lot of luxury."_

_"I know, sir."_

_"Can you follow orders?"_

_"Yessir."_

_The centurion stood, looked at Hadvar, back to Brandon._

_"Well," he said, "I think you could find a place here. What do you think, Hadvar: antesignani? Salvius mentioned he had a few openings." Hadvar nodded in agreement. "Well son, what do you say?"_

_Brandon looked at Hadvar, hoping for guidance, but the man's eyes were veiled; he stared at the floor. He had nowhere to go, no one he could call on for help, no home, no money, no food. What could he do? "The Legion takes care of their own," he had heard. _

_Hadvar prodded him. "Answer the centurion, boy."_

_Brandon met the centurion's eyes, and his face was set, determined. He reached out, and shook the centurion's hand._

* * *

**The First Day**

"Again."

Lis snorted and tossed her head as Brandon brought her around for another pass at the quintain. It was a warm day, and Brandon had shed his customary heavy armor for a suit of toughened leather that Gunmar had kept stashed in an out-of-the-way corner of Fort Dawnguard.

A small crowd had gathered by now, and had begun to make various suggestions about how Brandon might improve his technique.

"Keep your arm up, Brandon!"

"Try to hit the target this time, killer!"

Brandon sighed and reined Lis into the course.

"All right, Brandon," said Celann as he walked around to stand beside his student, "just remember what we talked about: keep your eye on the target and follow through." Brandon nodded solemnly and replaced his padded leather cap.

Celann stepped back out of the way and gave the signal.

Brandon clipped his spurs into Lis' flanks, and she shot forward so swiftly that she off-balanced her rider. Quickly compensating, Brandon kept his seat and held the lance tightly in his arm, aiming the point directly at the target on one arm of the quintain.

He felt the shock of impact, and dropped the training lance and shook his fist in the air in token of his victory. There were a few cheers, and then someone shouted "Look out!" But it was too late; Brandon felt a blow across his head, and was knocked from his saddle.

When he woke up he was lying flat on his back with Celann standing over him, looking both disappointed and amused. The crowd dispersed with a few good-natured jeers managing to impune both Brandon's abilities as a student, and Celann's worthiness as an instructor.

"You're killing me here, Brandon."

"I'm not feeling too great myself," replied the younger man, reaching out to accept Celann's proffered hand. "And it's all your fault, too," he continued, directing this remark at his horse, who had just trotted back up to meet him. He shook his finger in mock anger, "you know you're supposed to follow through after the strike, not stop like some wasting foal." Lis looked at him reproachfully; Celann laughed and clapped his student on the back.

"It's not Lis' fault, Brandon: she did her job; you were too busy celebrating to focus. That's why you got knocked out of the saddle." He patted Lis fondly, "She's a good horse, but I don't think you'll be doing any mounted charges for quite a while."

Brandon nodded at his horse, "What do you think, girl? Feel like going into battle?" She whickered and nuzzled his hand, her hot breath rushing through his fingers. "I'll be all right, Lis," he whispered, "don't worry." Brandon stood there for some time with his horse, talking softly with Celann now and again.

Their departure from Fort Dawnguard had been delayed several hours when one of their supply wagon's wheels were found to be rotten. It had taken until noon for a replacement to be made, and in that time, Celann had decided to give Brandon a few lessons in breton mounted combat.

"All right! We're moving out!" Isran's call echoed throughout their makeshift camp.

Brandon wiped the sweat from his brow and picked up his gear and replaced it on Lis' saddle. Celann gave him an encouraging smile and went to see to his own horse. Their column had halted a little more than a day's march outside of Riften, and the Dawnguard had made temporary camp while the wagon was being repaired.

Auriel's bow gleamed dully in the noonday sun as it and its quiver of sunhallowed arrows hung silently beside black-sheathed Morrowdim. Unreal is what it is, Brandon thought, like something out of father's stories. The bow of a god entrusted to me, to slay an ancient evil. Old Stokes would have had a thing or two to say about such a story. And yet here I am, living it.

A soft hand grasped his and held it lightly. "You've got that faraway look again." He had never quite figured out how she was able to sneak up on him like that, but he concealed his surprise beneath a shrug of his shoulders.

"Just thinking."

"What about?" she prompted.

He stroked the bow, admiring the curves and craftsmanship of it. "About all the endless years this bow must have seen: the many lives it has taken in that time, the hands which wielded it." He turned to her, poorly-concealed despair in his eyes. "Will Harkon's be next, do you think?"

Serana squeezed his hand gently. "Stop that, Brandon. We will face him together, and we will prevail." She caressed his face, tracing her fingers across his cheek. "You must believe that."

Brandon smiled briefly, but the smile did not reach his eyes. "Okay, Serana," he said, patting her hand. "I will."

Isran rode up, and glanced at the pair, his dark eyes roaming over Brandon's face and trailing down to their conjoined hands. "All right," he said, "we're breaking camp, and the wagon's working again, thank the gods. I need you out front, Brandon, even this close to Dayspring, I don't want to take any chances."

Brandon nodded, disengaging his hand from Serana's, and she watched him carefully as he mounted his horse and looked down at her, smiling sadly.

The wardogs barked joyously and chased after them as he rode off, followed closely by the twelve other cavalrymen who made up the advance guard. "Together," he whispered, and knew in his heart that it would not be so.

* * *

**The Second Day**

It was sweltering, and even the twelve horses of the advance guard raised enough dust to cake a thick layer onto Aaron's sweat-drenched face; he didn't want to even consider what it would be like back with the main column, with two hundred iron-shod feet pounding against a road drier than the hardtack they had eaten for breakfast.

"What are we doing here?" He asked for the third time.

Lucian, the man riding next to him, spat in disgust, and turned in his saddle to face his brother.

"Like I told you last time, and the time before that, we're clearing the line of advance for the main body." Aaron glared resentfully at the corporal's stripes his brother had received a few days ago from Isran.

"That's not what I meant, Lucian."

"Okay."

"Aren't you going to ask me what I meant?" asked Aaron, genuine surprise coloring his voice when it became clear that no further reply was forthcoming.

"No."

There was a brief pause as Aaron considered this response.

"Well, I mean what are we doing here, in the Dawnguard - not here, here, on the road."

"Haven't I already answered that question?"

"I mean, why did we join the Dawnguard? Seems like an unfortunate business to me."

Lucian chewed that one over a minute before he answered.

"Well," he began slowly, "they feed us, clothe us, and give us a roof over our heads, which is a damn sight better than what we had before."

"Well sure, sure, but then why didn't we join the legion? They get all that, and they get paid."

Lucian gestured towards the head of the small column, past the armored bodies and slung shields and weapons, to the leader, atop a silver-grey horse.

"See that man?"

"Well, yeah, sure I see him."

"See anybody else doing anything about the vampires?"

"No..."

"There's something going on, something big. One of the guys was saying the head vampire's planning something real bad, maybe bad for the whole world, he said. And maybe we're just a little piece of it, but that's better than nothing.

"Can't you feel it? We're part of something real important, something a damn sight more important than two runts from Highrock have any right to be a part of."

Aaron glanced skeptically toward the man riding at the head of their small patrol.

"Brandon? He can't be much older than I am - if that. Why's he in charge? Even Isran seems to take orders from him."

"He's young, for sure, but he's seen more than most men would see if they lived for a thousand years. You can feel it, when you're around him, a weight like of some awful destiny, and when you look in his eyes..."

"Right."

"I'm serious, Aaron. Those guys in second company said that he and Isran got in a big fight last night, but Brandon just stared him down like he was nothing more than a kid with a wooden stick."

"Whatever you say, brother."

"You'll see."

"Betcha he turns tail first scent of a vamp."

"Bet with what? You got no money, remember?"

"Oh. Yeah."

Silence settled over the pair, broken only by the clank of equipment, or the soft sound of hooves on the hard dust of the road. Aaron began to drift into daydream, the warmth lulling his senses into a dull half-sleep.

"Wake up!" hissed Lucian, and punched him on the shoulder.

"Ow!"

"Look!"

Up ahead, Brandon had raised a steady hand, signaling for the company to halt. The pair watched as their leader stood up in his stirrups, and grasped the hilt of his black-sheathed sword. Everyone tensed up, spears were raised and swords were loosened in sheathes; they spread out and prepared for action.

A small patrol trooped into view, talking loudly, with shields slung and weapons sheathed. Brandon spurred his horse forward.

"Who're they?" muttered Aaron.

"Riften soldiery, by the look of it."

The Riften sergeant halted his patrol and approached, smiling. He met Brandon about half-way between the two groups, and the two began talking closely. It seemed they were acquainted.

The Dawnguard and the Riften soldiers eyed each other, shifting weapons and gear in preparation for action.

Aaron leaned forward in his saddle, straining to catch a hint of what Brandon and the Riften sergeant were discussing. After three moments of infuriating silence, he hissed and threw down his reigns in frustration.

"Can't hear a gods-damned thing."

"Shut up."

Aaron fumed. The combination of heavy metal armor and the summer sun did not improve his disposition.

Finally, after some ten minutes of close conversation, Brandon broke apart from the Riften sergeant, remounted, and rode back to rejoin his command.

"What's the plan, sir?" questioned one of the cavalry troopers at the head of their small column.

"Why, continue on, of course," replied Brandon, a half smile that threatened to become a smirk brightening his features, "what else?"

The trooper looked back at the rest of the men. "But . . . won't they give away our position? And what about the rest of army?"

Brandon chuckled, and reigned his horse around to lead them forward once again. "It's all been taken care of, sergeant."

"Sir?" answered the sergeant, obviously confused, and a little concerned; but Brandon had already spurred his horse into motion, and had to shout back to make himself heard.

"They won't report anything, sergeant, and he'll keep other patrols out of the area." The sergeant shrugged his broad shoulders, and trotted forward to join his leader; the others followed behind at a swift pace.

As Aaron and his brother passed, they caught a flash of blue, as the Riften sergeant pocketed what might have been a pair of very finely cut sapphire gems.

"Brother," said Lucien bitterly, and spat, "we're in the wrong damn business."

The two looked at each other, and smiled.

* * *

**The Fourth Day**

The sounds of a half-encamped force greeted Brandon and his small group as they rode back through the trees towards the clearing they had chosen for the night's camp. Men from different companies shouted across the area, calling derogatory remarks and well-chosen insults; sergeants patrolled up and down tent-lines, ensuring uniformity and lending encouragement in the universal manner of all sergeants everywhere.

The small cavalry patrol was halted just beyond the clearing by a pair of sentries, who, after recognizing Brandon and his men, lowered their crossbows, and returned to their positions higher in the trees.

Frenzied activity covered the clearing, and for the most part their entrance was beyond the notice of most of the Dawnguard; it was only as they were tethering their mounts that Isran approached to receive their report.

The Redguard was an old campaigner, and looked it. His weather-worn features were craggy, and his leathery skin bore testament to the endurance of many years beneath an open sky.

"How does it look, Brandon?"

The younger man rubbed his chin thoughtfully, noticing for the first time the growth of several days' stubble. "We cleared the road as far as we could before the sun began to set, and it's open as far as that; I wouldn't venture to guess any more.

"We talked to a farmer that we passed; he seemed surprised to see us, but didn't say anything unusual."

The other man grunted noncommittally, but said nothing; the two watched one another across the saddle of Brandon's horse, as the younger man methodically removed the straps and harness holding his gear to Lis' flanks.

"What do you think of the campsite?" Isran questioned after long moments of silence, his eyes never leaving Brandon's face.

As Brandon examined the area, Isran was struck by the depth and care of the other man's appraisal; nothing was above his notice, and even the smallest details of the camp's organization were catalogued and filed away to play a part in the final analysis. It was more than a minute before Brandon answered the question, and were it any other man, Isran would have been offended by the delay. But Brandon was different; the way he carried himself, and the air of calm and poise which he now projected around him would have reassured even the most nervous soldier.

"It looks good. Very well prepared." Isran resisted the inexplicable urge to smile in gratified satisfaction. "The sentries are alert and vigilant, but I think we should be prepared for an attack on our camp."

"You think Harkon will attack us here?"

Brandon shook his head and once more looked slowly around the camp, considering. "I don't know if he will attack here," he said, indicating the clearing, "but he will not easily let us pen him inside Castle Volkihar; somewhere along the road he will attack us, and we must be prepared."

"At night." It was not a question.

"Yes."

Isran studied the young man closely, noting the tired eyes and weary posture. "Get some rest, Brandon, you'll need it."

Brandon shook his head slowly. "We all will, Isran."

"Perhaps - but you most of all, I think." And without waiting for a reply, Isran turned and left him. He could feel Brandon's eyes follow him for many moments, until he was lost in the crowded and bustling camp.

Sighing, Brandon, finished removing the gear from his mount, and left her at her tether, returning with his equipment to the tent that had been prepared for him.

Pushing the flap aside, he entered and sank down onto his bedroll. Exhaustion had come upon him suddenly, and he felt it in his very bones, mixed with a deep despair. Sleep followed soon after.

In his dreams, Brandon wandered through fields of stifling darkness and formless danger. Branches scratched at his face and limbs, and he fought simply to move forward through the trees.

Then he smelt roses, and felt a gentle hand upon his cheek, and heard a single, desperate plea:

Awake, my guardian.

Brandon started, and his eyes opened onto blackness, vague shapes in the darkness of his tent.

Two eyes, burning like the sun, blinked into existence.

"Serana?" Brandon challenged, but his voice sounded weak and stifled in the suffocating darkness.

"Not even close," came the growled response; the firebolt which followed it ignited the tent, and consumed it in flame.

* * *

It was the dogs which saved them.

Everyone remembered the day Brandon had entered the kennel; many of the dogs were half-wild, feral in their distrust of humans and their blank, hostile cunning. Isran and Celann had used dogs before, in the Vigil, but they had spent months training them, and those had been tame to begin with.

Somehow, Brandon had discovered the difficulty, as he always did, almost immediately after his arrival at Fort Dawnguard. The dogs had been particularly wild that week, and Isran was considering putting them all down. Inside the cavern, the noise of their barking and fighting was almost deafening.

But when Brandon entered, complete and utter silence fell. Isran and Celann had watched, speechless, as the younger man approached the pen and calmly unlatched it. From their vantage point, they had seen all the dogs sit on their haunches, one by one, as Brandon's gaze swept across each in his turn. The alpha, a huge dog - more than half wolf - that had almost killed Celann the day before, approached Brandon, tame as a puppy, and nuzzled his hand. Brandon had smiled, rubbed the dogs head, whistled softly, and left the pen without having ever spoken a word.

From that day forward, the dogs had been the most tame, intelligent, and well-trained animals Isran had ever seen.

It was the dogs which first warned them of the danger, and as their barked warning sounded across the camp, Dawnguard soldiers jumped from their bedrolls to don armor and take up their weapons.

Aaron pushed aside the flap of his squad's tent, following his sergeant towards the perimeter. The large bonfires which had been built around the camp cast eerie flickering shadows across the frightened, running figures. Almost at the exact moment Aaron and his comrades reached the edge of camp and formed into a loose skirmish line, other men burst from the dark line of trees just beyond the reach of the firelight.

At once, Aaron's awareness sharpened, seeing every detail of the enemies' gear, their faces, the pale, weird light which hazed their eyes; and yet simultaneously his awareness became limited to the short space surrounding he and those fighting beside him: what might happen in the battle outside this space he had no care for.

As if in a dream, he heard the strong, unwavering voice of his sergeant shouting commands; but Aaron felt himself shaking, for he was sore afraid; the wild men which he could see charging across the open space terrified him.

"Ready!" Came the command, and the unit brought their crossbows down into sight, aiming along the stock.

"Steady, now!" Aaron heard the sergeant cry, and many a wavering hand was steadied by the calm and confidence which was carried through that voice.

"Loose!"

Aaron depressed the trigger, and felt the recoil punch his shoulder as the quarrel shot from the crossbow and struck its target square.

The volley had been ordered and calm, and most had struck their target. But there was no time to reload, for the enemy was upon them, and everything devolved into chaos, Aaron's awareness shrank again, down to the tiny area around his own person. Then there was just hacking and slashing with his axe, blocking with his shield, and blood.

He had lived much longer than he thought he would, though it felt like an age, and had begun to hope that he might actually make it through his first fight, when he felt his legs come out from under him as he fell, as if time had slowed to a crawl.

Aaron hit the ground on his back, his weapons flung from his grasp and out of reach. As if stoppers had been removed from his ears, he heard the sounds of battle which had been blocked from his mind: shouts and cries of pain, the screaming of wounded animals, and he felt within his marrow the approach of his death.

A huge, hulking nord stood over him, armored only in fur, and holding a massive warhammer. The strange haze was in his eyes too, and even though Aaron seemed to meet his enemy's gaze, their was no recognition there: the nord's eyes were blank and thoughtless.

There was nothing he could do but watch. The hammer rose, readying for the killing blow, when it stopped short; the man let out a gurgling sigh and slumped, the blankness disappearing from his eyes as three feet of steel slid effortlessly through his chest.

Brandon pulled Morrowdim from the corpse, letting it fall to the side, and stood over Aaron. A pale light flickered in his hard grey eyes as he surveyed the battlefield, and Aaron began to understand what his brother had meant.

"On your feet, soldier," Brandon said to Aaron, and hauled the supine man to his feet.

All about them the battle was dying down; Dawnguard banners still flew in what was now the palest of morning light, and fighting across the camp was ending.

"Well fought, son." Aaron felt the other man clap him on the shoulder, and turned to thank him, but Brandon was already gone.

The Dawnguard paused only long enough to police their dead and wounded, and had abandoned their ravaged camp before the sun had broken the horizon.

* * *

**The Eighth Day**

"Do you think he will attack us again?" Serana's soft voice broke the thoughtful silence which had settled over the pair as they rode; the sun was barely rising.

Brandon shrugged. "Who knows what he will do? Perhaps he will, perhaps he won't. I guess it depends on how many he has brought under his sway."

"Only a few were actual vampires, though," replied Serana, "those who snuck into the camp and tried to kill you and Isran; the rest were just bandits and thugs." From behind, they could hear laughing and singing from the soldiers. The stiff breeze fluttered in the banners swaying overhead.

A wordless nod was her only response, and she could see that Brandon was preoccupied; he looked a great deal at the countryside they passed, and shifted constantly in his saddle.

"Is anything wrong?"

A slight shake of his head was all that she received, until he turned his head and smiled warmly at her. "Sorry, Serana, I was just thinking."

"About what?"

A cry from up ahead interrupted Brandon's reply, and all eyes faced towards the head of the column; the soldiers had quieted, their tenseness palpable. But it was just an outrider, returning to Isran to report.

The rider cantered up towards them and delivered his report: they were half a mile from Falkreath, and they had cleared their passage with the Thane through his town. Serana noticed that Brandon was unsurprised, as if he had already known. She smiled slightly and patted her horse's neck affectionately.

The scout was proved correct when, not fifteen minutes later, they reached the outskirts of Falkreath. Wind was rustling in the trees, and sunlight streaked through gaps in the foliage to dapple leaves and green grass. Serana was quite taken aback by the quiet and solemnity of the place.

As the long column of Dawnguard soldiers marched through the center of the town, she noticed that the townspeople went about their daily business as if no army was marching down their streets: none came out to stare, few even looked.

She looked at Brandon, the unspoken question written across her face.

"It's nothing they haven't seen before," he replied, a small smile creasing his tired face.

"What do you mean?"

"Falkreath has seen more than its share of war. The people here gave up long ago on taking a part in the affairs of kings and armies; now it is just . . . Falkreath." There was a tenderness in his voice that shocked Serana. "Do you see that?" He gestured towards a wide green field beyond the edge of the town, and Serana nodded. "A graveyard. One of many." Serana thought that thousands must have been buried there it was so great in size.

"How do you know?"

Brandon paused, rolling the words around in his mind. "I lived here, long ago."

* * *

**The Thirteenth Day**

"Well I'll be a son of a bitch."

"I don't believe it."

"Hey, Jenssen, you owe me twenty septims."

"Yeah? Talk to me tomorrow."

These and other more colorful remarks greeted the Vigilants of Stendarr as they approached the Dawnguard column, coming up a tributary road from the East. Brandon and the rest of the Dawnguard officers sat astride their horses, watching the rag-tag company march towards them. The Vigilants stopped some twenty yards distant as one of them – the leader by his insignia – held up his left hand in a silent command.

The two groups eyed each other; suspicion was writ on every face.

"Who commands here?" questioned the Vigilant leader, his voice was soft, but carried easily across the distance. Isran spurred his horse forward and watched with some amusement as the Vigilant's face darkened. "Isran," he said, answering his own question.

"You hadn't heard?" taunted Isran.

"No," replied the Vigilant, "my detachment was stationed at Morthal; what's behind me is all that's left of it – along with a few patrols we picked up on the way.

"We heard rumors that the Dawnguard were moving West in force, and thought we might try and join up with you."

Isran nodded inscrutably. "And why would you want to do that?"

The Vigilant blanched, and looked to the others around Isran, his eyes roaming over them, gauging their attitudes. Finding no aid, he turned once more to the Dawnguard commander. "Please, Isran, I know the Vigil treated you badly, and you were right – the vampires are a threat, beyond our reckoning. But they destroyed our home, hunted us down, even masqueraded as us. Let us help you, and win back some of our honor."

The hard face of the other man creased into a huge grin, and he bellowed with laughter. "Had it occurred to you that had you heeded my warnings any sooner, all your beloved Vigilants might still be alive?"

"Yes."

"And don't you think I would have some cause to turn you away? I do not want unsteady allies by my side in the coming fight." At this, Isran made to turn away.

But now the Vigilant's blood was up, and the matter would not be settled so easily. "You will not find us unsteady, Isran. We will fight and die with you; this is a threat we must eradicate, and the Vigil will see it through."

Isran looked down, his face clouded with doubt, suddenly unsure. He glanced back towards the others, and at Brandon, seeking some sign or counsel, but the young man's face was quiet and impassive; he waited, and had no words to offer.

All was quiet at the roads' meeting, the two bodies of men watched their leaders with worried eyes, uncertain of the course on which they would soon be set. At last, Isran nodded his acceptance, and wheeled about his horse to lead them on to their doom.

* * *

The sun was sinking towards the mountains in the west when Brandon dismounted and led Lis to her tether by his tent. The Dawnguard had arrived at Castle Volkihar, and awaited only the rising of tomorrow's sun to cross the narrow expanse of water and begin their assault on the fortress.

Brandon watched the shadows lengthen as the sun closed the gap between it and the horizon, and pulled a colorful piece of cloth, carefully folded and stored, from his saddlebag. Stuffing the cloth into his tunic, he turned and pulled Morrowdim from its sheath in a single fluid motion.

In a quiet, secluded corner of the camp, he thrust his sword deep into the soft earth, standing it on end and taking out the cloth, he hung it from the hilt of his upright blade. Woven into the threads of the fabric were many strange characters which seemed themselves to intertwine and flow together, as if forming a tapestry of their own – independent of the cloth upon which they were imprisoned.

Brandon knelt on the small swarth of grass, facing the reddening western skies.

"What does that say?" Serana asked. Brandon jumped, and swore softly: she'd snuck up on him again.

"It's hard to translate," he evaded, but she was not easily put off.

"Why?"

"They're not just simple letters; the way in which the characters are positioned, their proximity, size and shape, all have an effect on their meaning – some I have no words for."

"Please, Brandon?"

He smiled slightly at her. "All right."

For a long minute Brandon stayed kneeling, staring intently at the piece of fabric. Serana began to wonder if he had somehow fallen asleep.

Finally he stirred, looking at her. "As best I can put it into words, it says: 'Where wisdom and valor fail, all that remains is faith.'"

"And those?" she asked, pointing to the characters engraved along the blade and hilt of Morrowdim.

Brandon pulled off the cloth and drew his sword from the ground, holding it up into the air, where the fading light caught and glinted on the sharp edges of the blade's lettering.

He traced his finger along one side of the blade. "Dawn," he said, turning it, "and Dusk: this is Morrowdim – or Minuial, as it was first named."

Serana watched him as he gazed at the blade; it glowed softly in the fading light. Silently she left him, but he took no notice, and again sank the blade into the earth and replaced the cloth totem about its hilt, kneeling towards the west.

When Serana looked back, she caught a faint hint of the smell of roses, and then nothing.

* * *

_The split chunks of wood spilled from his arms and clattered to the ground, followed shortly after by the dull thud of a discarded axe._

_"There you are, Aranea; that should last you a good while."_

_"Indeed it will, my boy," she said, smiling warmly, "thank you."_

_She was sitting down at the spare table she kept beside her small tent, a meager meal spread out before her._

_Brandon leaned down and kissed her forehead before joining her. "I would feel better knowing you were down in Windhelm, Aranea. You're so… exposed, out here, with only that little tent for shelter."_

_The dunmer woman rolled her eyes and sighed in maternal affection. "Not this again, Brandon. I'm fine, really; you don't have to worry about me."_

_"But…"_

_Aranea held up her hand. "Enough, Brandon. Though the Lady may have withdrawn my Sight, I must still maintain her shrine – that is my task." At this, Brandon subsided into quiescence, and the pair sat quietly together, enjoying the spiced wine Brandon had bought with the last few septims of that month's pay._

_"Have you been practicing your writing?" Her tone was scolding. Brandon sighed in response, and pulled a roll of parchment from his pack. Aranea received it and unrolled it, clicking her tongue in disapproval. "Brandon, Brandon, Brandon, what am I going to do with you?" Brandon sighed again, and Aranea looked up at him. "These are not very good, Brandon," she said, displaying his attempts at calligraphy._

_"How will you be able to understand the will of the Lady if you cannot read her characters?"_

_Brandon's silent look was exasperated. "That makes no sense."_

_"Why?"_

_"Because if Azura wants to talk to me, she can just make herself understood. And anyway, it's not like she 'speaks' Dunmeri, anyway. My language is just as far removed from her as yours."_

_Aranea shook her head despairingly. "Like all Outlanders, you fail to understand. There are subtleties of meaning which transcend the denoted meaning of a word."_

_Brandon watched her blankly; Aranea rolled her eyes. "Do you have the sword the Lady gave you?" she asked. Brandon started and pulled the longblade from its sheath and laid it across the table between them._

_"What does that say?" she asked, pointing to the lettering on one side of the blade._

_"'Aur:'dawn."_

_She flipped the sword over and pointed to the lettering on that side._

_"'Tinnu:' dusk."_

_"That?" she probed, indicating the letters along the hilt._

_"'Minuial.'" Here Brandon paused, considering. "That just means 'morning,' doesn't it?"_

_"That's what it says, not what it means."_

_Brandon made a face. "Then what does it mean?"_

_"That is why you must learn, Brandon: to answer that question. Keep working on your calligraphy, and bring it with you the next time you come visit me." _

_The hard winds of Skyrim blew across them, ruffling their cloaks; Brandon shivered despite the spiced wine, but Aranea seemed untouched._

_They spent the night in her small tent, and in the morning Brandon left her once again, walking reluctantly down the stone steps of Azura's shrine._

_When he turned to look back, Aranea was still standing there at the top of the stairs; she was very small next to the statue of their goddess. Brandon raised his hand in farewell, Morrowdim slung across his back along with his other gear. In the distance, he saw Aranea lift her own slender arm and wave in response. Then she turned to enter her tent and was gone from his sight._

**UH**


	5. The Dying of the Light

**The Sun's Despite: Chapter ****5**

**The Dying of the Light**

_It was early morning when Brandon ran away._

_With him he took a wedge of cheese, half a loaf of bread, and the bow his father had given him for his fourteenth birthday, two weeks ago._

_His mother had died of the Coughing Sickness the week after his birthday, and his father no longer smiled, but talked again of the Legion and a new campaign in the West._

_The rabbit he killed for his meal was scrawny, but the roasted meat was delicious, and kept the hunger pangs at bay. Nevertheless, it was a costly feast: he had lost an arrow shooting the rabbit._

_A week later he had no more arrows, and he had eaten the last of the bread and cheese he had taken from the house pantry. The bow lay broken at the foot of a ravine near a pool of blood, and Brandon himself, nearing starvation, stumbled out of the woods into a large town that bustled with activity. _

_No one paid him any attention as he limped his way through the cobbled streets, and he never remembered how he ended up lying against the wall of a tavern. When he woke, his vision was filled by two pairs of well-used boots._

"_Hey boy," said the boots._

_Brandon rolled over. Talking boots would not ease his hunger._

"_Boy." Brandon felt something nudge his leg and sat up, half turning to look at his molester._

_Two tall men stood over him, watching his movements appraisingly._

"_Whaddya want?" he murmured. They ignored his question._

"_You hungry, boy?" Brandon mumbled something to the affirmative._

_One of the men scrounged in a pocket and tossed him a crust of bread; Brandon pounced on it, forgetting all his father's warnings of the dangers of charity._

"What're you doing here, boy?"

"_Mmf. Ran away," said Brandon around a mouthful of crust. The two men shared a look._

"_Work's hard to come by these days," was one man's vague reply. The other squatted down beside Brandon._

"_You know what a mercenary is, boy?" Brandon shook his head, crumbs dripped from his mouth. "A sell-sword?" Understanding bloomed in the child's eyes, and he nodded his head vigorously._

"_Well, my friend and I are looking to recruit some men from this town to join our company. You interested?"_

_Brandon looked the man over, and then switched his penetrating gaze to the man's companion. Swallowing down the last bit of bread he asked, "Why me?"_

_The squatting man glanced up at his still-standing friend and looked back at Brandon. "I asked the same question when Lucius pointed you out, but he says there's something special about you. He's got the Eye, does Lucius, so I'll trust his judgement on this._

"_Pay's not great, but you get to keep whatever loot you take, and we'll train you and equip you." _

_Brandon hesitated._

"_It's not like you have any other prospects, is it boy?" said the other man. "And is it that much of a choice: starve to death, or have a place in a company of men? Think, boy. You've got the strength in you, I know it."_

_They were true to their word. Two days later, Brandon found himself in a small camp surrounded by thirty other men, some hard, some fresh._

_They trained him, taught him to fight on horseback and dismounted, how to ambush an enemy and take him unawares. Two months, by Brandon's tally, did they spend on training before leaving their encampment._

* * *

_It was a warm day, and Brandon was sweating profusely beneath his padded quilt gambeson; residual heat from the razed village still reached them even here. _

_Brandon lay in the dirt with his buddy Silus. The rest of the company was spread out along the treeline, where the highway bent at nearly a right angle, and the foresters had not been active in cutting back the growth. There were perhaps ten yards between the outlying trees and the road itself._

_There were five notches on the butt of Brandon's crossbow – one for each man it had killed – and Brandon pulled it firmly into his shoulder, sighting down the stock._

_In the distance, they could hear the Imperial detachment marching up the road: the clank of armor and gear and the shouted orders of the centurion echoed along the forested lane. Next to him, Silus spat and shook his head disgustedly at the amount of noise being made by the Imperials. Silus took a certain pride in the skill of his enemy, and turned his professionally critical eye on everyone._

_All along the line, the only motion was the eyes of the mercenaries as they followed the march of the Imperials along the road, their blue armor glinted garishly in the sun. Silus spat again: evocati; his professional opinion did not rate Imperial reservists particularly highly. Brandon ignored him, and concentrated on his sector._

_The loosely ranked formation reached the center of the mercenaries' ambush, and the captain gave the signal._

_Brandon depressed the trigger of his crossbow and sent the thick, stubby quarrel thudding into the chest of the optio. The first volley was devastating, and at such close range the crossbows ripped through the chainmail armor of the legionaries. The left column collapsed, and Brandon threw off his concealing cloak of leaves and underbrush, Silus right next to him. Weapons drawn, they charged into the ranks of the reservists along with the rest of the company._

_Brandon shifted around the screaming, supine body of a wounded Imperial, and slammed into a panicked legionary, knocking the soldier off his feet, and allowing Brandon to quickly dispatch him._

_The initial shock of the volley and the devastating charge that had followed broke the Imperials. Their leadership gone, they wavered and ran, only to be cut down from behind by the fleet-footed mercenaries._

_As Brandon began moving through the dead and dying, he killed the wounded and stripped the dead of any valuables they carried. By chance, he found himself within earshot of the captain and their company's employer._

"_We're making a statement – that's the whole purpose of this little…diversion. I thought you understood that, Riln." _

"_Yeah, I understand," returned the captain, "but there's making a statement and being stupid. You know how long it'll take to do what you want."_

"_I finance this expedition, and you will obey my orders."_

_Grumbling, the captain gave way, and began giving the necessary commands. The high elf turned away, and busied himself with examining the papers of the dead centurion._

_When they left the road, the highway was lined on both sides by crucified legionaries, their skinless, outstretched limbs were nailed to the trees alongside and their equipment was piled in a smouldering heap at the road's middle._

_Two months later, Brandon was running for his life, chased by an Imperial cavalry patrol across the provincial border into Skyrim._

* * *

When Serana woke, a harsh, biting chill was in the air, and a pale, dim, sickly light suffused the cramped spaces of her tent. She and the rest of the Dawnguard had slept beneath the shadow of Castle Volkihar, looming across the open water from its high hill perhaps a mile distant. But even so separated, Serana could feel its malign influence and almost taste the pain and horror which seemed to emanate from its walls. She wondered how she had once lived in such a place.

Sliding out from under her blankets, she dressed herself, and girded about her waist the elven dagger she had worn for - Brandon informed her - some three thousand years of slumber. She imagined the dagger sinking into her father's flesh and piercing his ancient heart - she grimaced, and closed her eyes in despair: if not by my hand, then whose? It should be mine: who else bears the responsibility?

Brandon had told her of a saying among the Britons of Highrock, and her mind turned towards those words as if seeking comfort, but there was none to be found: the sins of the father shall visit harm even unto the third and fourth generations.

The chill air burned as it passed through her nostrils and down her throat. She forgot what had awoken her; she remembered hearing . . . something . . . in her dreams - something of great power, tinged with sorrow and anguish, yet she could not grasp the fleeting memories, and they vanished beneath her hesitant examination.

Pushing the canvas flap aside and stepping out into the early morning, Serana saw that there had been a frost during the night: tiny drops of dew clung to the tent-stays and grass-blades and shone in the silver light like tiny, perfect diamonds. Her breath fogged the air.

She noticed that the entire camp was awake, and it seemed not entirely by accident. Serana wondered if they had felt the Power as she had, and unconsciously awoken in desperate reply.

There. Striding through the camp like a spirit of the morning, his eyes alight with pale fire, came Brandon, and all fell away before him, like shrunken leaves before the North Wind.

"Serana," he said. And in his tone was all that needed to be said. She did not know how to respond, so many were the things which called to her from that simple greeting; she could not even smile.

But Brandon smiled his own small half-smile and looked up into the brightening sky. "There will be fog."

"That is good," was all she could manage. She did not want to think about the coming battle.

"Yes." They stood amid the rising camp, looking one at another for a long, heartbreaking moment.

"Brandon . . ." she said, and broke the silence which had come to rest between them.

"Yes?"

"About my father," she paused, collecting herself, formulating the words and phrases which seemed to slip like quicksilver between the fingers of her mind. "I should be the one to face him, not you," Brandon drew away, shaking his head, not looking at her, "he is my father, my charge: it is I who must atone for his sins."

"No, Serana, that is not true."

"It is, it is true," she insisted, her voice raised and angry, now, "I will face this on my terms, Brandon - you cannot stop me."

Brandon raised his hands in surrender, "That is fair to say," he answered gently, but Serana knew that he was merely appeasing her.

"At least," she continued, more softly now, "at least promise me that you will not face him alone."

Brandon smiled his tragic half-smile once more and said, "That is an oath I could not keep, Serana, so I will not make it."

They stood together, motionless, watching the camp dissipate and prepare for action.

Brandon had been right, though, a fog rapidly descended, and the camp was soon enshrouded in it. Castle Volkihar, which had once, only minutes ago, been seen so clearly from across the divide, was now invisible - a malevolent, unseen presence which could somehow still be felt.

The Dawnguard and their Vigil allies began making ready to cross the channel and take the castle. The plan - if all went well - was for Brandon and Serana to infiltrate the castle through the undercroft and open the gate, allowing the main force entrance into the keep. Once there, no one was quite sure. Win or lose, the matter would be decided here, one way, or another.

Wrapped in fog, Serana stood for what felt like an eternity, gazing out into the distance to where she knew her father awaited, like some fat spider at the center of his web: all strands led to him, and all prey was ultimately his.

She turned, and there was Brandon, still at her side. "Ready?" she asked.

"Always."

They walked together towards the boats, where the rest of the Dawnguard awaited them.

The chill sea rolled onto the beach and wetted Serana's feet in a desultory effort to deter her trespass. She took no notice, and climbed carefully into the makeshift boat, taking her seat on the planks.

Their muffled oars made little noise, and combined with the fog, the small armada made no sound to announce its passing.

The crossing was swift, the little boats riding the swells and wind with surprising agility to beach themselves on the opposite shore. Brandon and Serana soon separated from the rest of the little fleet, and found themselves quite alone in the fog's chill embrace.

Somewhere on their right, the Dawnguard crept forward, feeling the grim presence of Castle Volkihar, now only a dim shadow in the distance. They inched towards the gate, silently, carefully, and then they waited, weapons readied, for their moment to come.

* * *

Serana watched as the shore receded into the heavy fog that had settled so suddenly over them. The sounds of their oars, and even her own breathing were muffled by the hazy covering, and she wondered what god had seen fit to bless their passage in this way. Toward the middle of the boat, working deftly at the oars, sat Brandon, a sword and a bow slung across his back, armored only in a light suit of padded leather.

There was not a breath of wind, yet Serana felt as if they were moving inordinately swiftly across the channel, and soon they found themselves bumping up against the ancient stone of the abandoned Volkihar docks.

They disembarked carefully, stepping lightly on the crumbling flagstones. Serana edged her way along a wall to its corner, mindful of the sentries which had stood here on their last visit. The fog was too much even for her, but something told her that somewhere out there was a watcher - a cold sentry of remorseless vigilance. She turned to Brandon and shook her head to indicate her uncertainty. He nodded and un-slung his bow - even in the fog its silvery surface gleamed brightly. Putting his foot on one curve he bent the bow back and strung it; Serana watched with some surprise as Brandon's muscles corded and bunched beneath his clothing.

Taking his bow in hand and drawing an arrow from its quiver, he moved past Serana to the corner, whispering as he went.

"What?" she asked, she had not heard him clearly, but he looked back and merely shook his head. Brandon put arrow to string and then sat silently at the corner for a long minute, as he watched something that Serana could not see. Finally, he stood, drew the bow, and loosed; the arrow flashed from its string like a star from heaven, and disappeared into the mist. Five times he repeated this motion, in less time then Serana could complete a brace of breaths, each arrow inevitably followed by a bright flash which illuminated the docks, as if the fog had drawn aside and let through the warming rays of the sun.

When the last arrow had been loosed, Brandon looked back and nodded to her: it was clear. With some trepidation, Serana stepped forward out from behind the sheltering wall, and followed Brandon forward towards the undercroft's entrance.

Brandon had already made it to the door and was fussing with the lock and cursing under his breath as she approached; he had already broken at least two of his lockpicks trying to bypass the door. Serana tapped him on the shoulder.

"Would you like some help?" she asked, somehow cheered by this display of humanity, her voice was full of mock-concern. Brandon muttered something in response, and looked up at her.

"Be my guest," he replied, and held out a pair of lockpicks. She moved past him without acknowledging the proffered tools, and held up a hand towards the lock, index finger extended. A spark of energy flicked between her fingertip and the lock, and the mechanism clicked, whirred, and released; the door swung open to reveal a darkened interior.

"What - how..."

"Just learned it," Serana answered primly, without turning, and walked unconcernedly into the castle's cellar.

Heaving a sigh, Brandon shouldered his weapons and followed her through the door and into the half-dark of the undercroft. Un-lit torches hung forlornly in their sconces as the wind whistled gently through the open portal, and Brandon turned to heave the heavy wooden door shut behind them.

Serana led the way, and they crept through the dark and gloomy interior, brushing aside the massive accumulations of web and dust which had somehow gathered together since their last visit. Slowly, carefully, they passed through the darkened passageways, encountering not a single watchful guardian, until they finally emerged into the castle interior. There, ahead of them, was the gatehouse entry; inside that tower would be the controls to open the castle's gates.

But Harkon was ready for them, and the castle was filled with his servants: ragged bandits and their vampire masters, gargoyles, and death-hounds patrolled the hallways. To reach the gatehouse was an impossible task; they would die far short of their goal.

"You must go back, Serana." He did not look at her, but she rounded on him fiercely.

"What? No! I will not leave you!"

"You must. I will get the gate open, and when the Dawnguard come through, you may find your father." Still he refused to look at her.

"Go!" he whispered, and pushed her forcefully back down the hallway, "hide yourself, and find your father when it begins; I will deal with the gate."

* * *

The heavy fog was being burned away by the rising sun, and the Dawnguard began to feel more and more exposed, lying prostrate within bowshot of the castle. They had been there, silent as the grave, since the sun had crested the horizon, and the waiting was beginning to tell. The dogs bit at each other and whined, and the trolls fidgeted under their heavy armor.

Gunmar wiped his forearm across his brow, sweating despite the chill, and looked desperately at the hazy outline of the castle gate. It had been too long - what would they do if Brandon and Serana failed? Slink back to Fort Dawnguard and await their death? He fingered his axe, his knuckles white with tension, his grip sweaty and loose despite it.

Then he felt something inside the castle tug at him, deep within his core, as if his very soul leapt and yearned to be free at some hidden sound. There was a short, barking yell, then a scream, as a body toppled from a gatehouse window; the chain clattered, and the portcullis slid upwards, and the gates blossomed outwards.

For one long, breath-taking moment, all that Gunmar could think was:

_He did it!_

And then Isran was standing and yelling for them to charge; the trolls and dogs were barking and howling as they led the way, and Dawnguard and Vigilants burst forward up the stone ramp like the breaking of the tide.

The vampire thralls guarding the gate were trampled under the trolls' advance, and others were brought down by the dogs before they had even drawn a sword or sounded an alarm. But the two statues to either side of the gate were not so easily dealt with, and as the invaders approached, they came alive and blocked the entrance: gargoyles. They and the trolls locked together in titanic contest, but the greater numbers of the Dawnguard soon made the difference, and the gargoyles were quickly brought down. But they had served their purpose and delayed the enemy, allowing the vampires to respond to the threat and rush defenders to the breached gateway.

Their momentum stilled, the Dawnguard stalled outside the gates as the telling power of their trolls could not be brought fully to bear on the enemy. Isran ordered them to draw away, and the mages began throwing bolts of sunlight into the vampire ranks to devastating effect, so closely were they packed. As the second volley of sunlight and quarrels struck the vampire shieldwall, it broke and fell back into the castle.

Isran ordered a second charge, and the trolls once more led the way, forcing their way through the gateway and into the castle itself. Those thralls too slow to flee were trampled underfoot or thrown aside and crushed brutally against the stone walls.

Gunmar took an ice bolt on his shield and buried his axe in the stomach of the offending vampire. He could see bolts of sunlight thrown by Dawnguard mages burst and spatter off the defenses and bodies of their vampire opponents. Isran stood out among them all, wielding his massive hammer, and surrounded by an aura of pure light.

Laying about with his axe, Gunmar killed two more vampires, but the enemy was far from defeated. Inside were the bulk of Harkon's forces, and they put up a fierce defence with all the tools at their disposal; it looked to be a close-run thing.

"Gunmar!" came a shout, and he recognized the voice as Serana's. He pushed his way through the debris and chaos to approach her. She was alone.

"Where is Brandon, girl?"

"I don't know," she said desperately, "He went to deal with the gatehouse alone, but I can't find him anywhere!"

Gunmar cursed under his breath. "Where would Harkon be?" She pointed towards a large staircase that seemed to lead up into the heights of the castle.

"The chapel."

As they forced their way through the battle, Gunmar gathered a motley force about him, Dawnguard, Vigilants, even a troll and a pair of dogs. They fought up the stairs and made it to the massive chapel doors. Gunmar and one of the Dawnguard men put their shoulders to one of the doors, but it would not budge. A troll tried next, but even its monstrous strength had no effect.

"It's no use," said Gunmar; the doors were solidly barred and nothing could get through them. "Is there no other way to enter?" But Serana only shook her head. "Then Brandon is on his own," said Gunmar sadly, we can only hope he prevails, and exact vengeance if he does not."

"No!" she shouted, "my father will not have the victory here. Stand back," she warned, and her eyes smouldered with ruin.

The fireball blasted the twin doors into kindling, leaving charred and broken splinters in their place. Serana dashed through, followed soon after by Gunmar and the others. There was no one inside. The noon sun glinted through heavily tinted windows at the chapel's apse. They explored the interior but found only broken silver arrows, scorched markings along the wall, and, last of all, the Bow of Auriel.

"Where are they?" asked Serana, but there was no answer.

The battle was not yet over, and it was some time before the vampires' will broke and they fled, to be hunted down and slain by the pursuing Dawnguard.

Castle Volkihar was searched from top to bottom, but Harkon and Brandon were nowhere to be found; none had seen them, and Serana had begun to give up hope, until a shout came, drawing all outside. And there was Brandon, broken and bloody upon the ground at the castle's foot. A great red dragon stood watch beside him, with smoking nostrils and fiery eyes, who suffered none to approach its charge.

* * *

_An hour earlier..._

The Shout had nearly deafened him. The voice of the dragon tongue reverberating along the stone walls had rattled the teeth in his skull, its Power, he was sure, had been felt for half a mile or more. Yet he was accustomed to such discharge, and recovered swiftly; far behind him, Serana was still stunned where she stood. Brandon took his chance; he would not let her face her father.

His now-ethereal form passed through the stone walls and up the long staircase to where the levers and mechanisms of the gatehouse resided. The effect began to fade, and he felt his body begin to reassert its permanency. A startled guard gave a rattling yell as Brandon confronted him from around a corner, but three feet of steel embedded itself in his belly, and he fell with a crash from a glass window, his death-scream following after.

Brandon reached the mechanism and threw the heavy switch. The portcullis clattered upwards into its housing, and the heavy gates opened with a massive bang that shook the stones beneath his feet. The yell from outside confirmed that the Dawnguard were on their way, and Brandon flew down the stairs, sword in hand, barely touching each fifth step. He burst through the gatehouse door and cut down the startled vampire who had been unlucky enough to stand beside it.

Already the sound and din of battle began to fill the castle.

In the chapel he will be strongest; that is where he will go.

Brandon rushed to the great hall, where already a wild melee was brewing between the vampires and their human enemies. Brandon could not distinguish Harkon from among the crazed combatants, but lifting his eyes to the stairs opposite, Brandon caught a glimpse of a shadowed figure dashing upwards, wearing the same armor as Serana - armor she had told him was reserved for those of the "royal blood."

His weariness dropping away, Brandon cut a path through the melee, and sprinted up the stairs after Harkon; at the top there was no sign, and darkness began to envelop the halls, lit only by secondary light from the spaces below. _There_, he thought, as he saw a void in the dimly lit walls: the entrance to the chapel.

Whispering a brief prayer, Brandon closed his eyes, sheathed Morrodim, and strung the Bow of Auriel. Even in the darkness, the bow and its silver arrows seemed to shine brightly, and, one arrow nocked, he advanced into Harkon's lair.

A low, deep-throated chuckle greeted him as he entered, and the doors slammed shut behind him. The room was dimly lit by a darkened window, which served primarily to illuminate a fountain which sprang from the chapel's floor. Brandon suppressed a shudder as he realized that what circulated in that hideous fountain was not water. He whispered another prayer.

"She cannot hear you, my friend. It is too dark even for the Whore."

Brandon loosed an arrow towards where the voice had come. It struck the stone wall and gave a weak burst of sunfire before dropping broken to the floor in a forlorn clatter.

"I see the dragon has teeth after all," came a gloating murmur, full of derision; it was the same darkly persuasive voice that Brandon had heard so many months ago. "Why don't you give me the Bow, and I'll consider letting you live - and perhaps my lovely daughter, as well."

"Never."

"Defiant to the end, hm? You hero-types are so very dull. I have lived thousands of years - do you know how many times I have faced some vainglorious pretender determined to end me?" Brandon did not provide an answer, but Harkon did not require one. "So many that you have become far, far, too predictable. Why, you even left my daughter behind, all alone, out of pure, misguided nobility."

Another arrow loosed, giving off another feeble burst, but revealing nothing. Brandon cursed and drew a third arrow.

"Were you afraid she would turn out like _you _if she faced me? Full of only rage and sorrow? Do you really believe she could kill me?"

Slow, measured footsteps sounded on the flagstones at the head of the church. Brandon turned towards them and loosed one arrow and then another. The vampire lord, shorn of his human form, was wreathed in energy, covered in vampiric symbols and arcane jewelry. One arrow he struck aside with his sword; the other he plucked from the air between pinched fingers and examined it, as if it were a mildly intriguing insect.

"Do you believe that _you_ can?" The arrow crumpled between his fingers and fell to the ground.

"I will do what I must."

"Give me the bow, and I will let you take my daughter somewhere far away from here. You may even be the last to fall." Another arrow was his answer. Harkon sighed. "Very well," he said, and disappeared; a bright, purple sphere opened up where he had been only a second ago and then closed just as suddenly.

Bow bent, arrow-feathers brushing against his cheek, Brandon turned in a slow circle, wary and uncertain, afraid of being taken unawares by his enemy, trying to cover all angles.

The muscles in his arm began to ache, and a small part of him began to wonder if Harkon had gone, fleeing to some other part of the castle. But another part, a braver, more rational part, knew that he had not gone; somewhere in the darkness, he waited.

The tear came again, and the awful purplish hole ripped open, and from it spewed a dark stream, squeaking and chirping: bats. Brandon loosed one arrow and another, and another; the sheer mass of bats obviated the need for any aim or finesse. The bursts of sunfire which accompanied each arrow burned and scorched the small furry bodies, and they fell limply to the ground to form a perverse carpet over the stone. But it was not enough; they mobbed him, swarming around him, nipping and biting and suffocating him.

Brandon forced his way from the cloud and sprinted across the room. One of the bats squished beneath his boot, and the slipperiness of its blood and gore caused him to lose his footing and fall. Tumbling to the floor, Brandon felt Auriel's Bow fly from his hands.

The fall had knocked the wind from him, but Brandon desperately tried to regain his footing as he noticed, almost absentmindedly, that the bats were now gone.

A massive, bejeweled hand reached down and grasped him by the throat, lifting Brandon from the ground and two full feet into the air.

Harkon chuckled darkly. "Did you really think that you had a chance? You are barely a man, dragonling - and I have seen more winters than you may dream of.

"You should have taken my offer. Do you have any words to give to my daughter before I kill her?"

Brandon only choked; Harkon's grip was crushing his windpipe.

"A fitting epitaph for the last of your ragged kind."

Harkon's barbed wings curved around and embedded themselves deep in the muscles of Brandon's lower back, just as Brandon's ebony dagger sliced it's way through the tough, leathery hide of Harkon's abdomen and lodged between two of his ribs. Harkon roared in pain and flung Brandon from him, to land bleeding and breathless on the steps leading up to the Chapel's head.

The wind flew from his lungs, and Brandon felt two of his ribs fracture under the impact.

With a sigh of his own, Harkon drew the dagger from his body, and held it up as if in demonstration. "So the dragon has teeth sharp enough, I see. That is as it should be, I suppose." Then his eyes grew bright and fiery, and that fire coursed through his arm and to his hand, and the godsblood burned and melted within his awful grip.

Brandon pushed himself to his feet, gasping in pain, and drew Morrowdim from its black sheath, slung across his back. The blade glinted brightly in the twilit room, and the paleness caught and sang along the edges of the dunmeri runes carved along its surface.

Harkon laughed again. "I do not understand. What stake do you have in this? Do you seek atonement? Do you think that by keeping my daughter and I apart, and preventing her from consummating her revenge, that you will somehow wipe away your own sin?"

A strangely inquisitive look came over Harkon's inhuman features. "That is it, is it not?" It wasn't a question. "This isn't about my daughter at all." He paused. "How intriguing."

Voices sounded from beyond the chapel doors, and the sounds of fighting crept closer and closer.

"Time to go then," Harkon said, and flicked a finger. Purple fire consumed both he and Brandon.

The tear emptied Brandon out into thin air, surrounded by darkness. He fell, striking a hard flagstone surface. Morrowdim clattered from his hands and out of reach. His broken ribs grated against each other and caught at his muscle, making him cry out in pain. He felt the blood leaking from the wounds on his back, and knew that he would die in this place if he did not force himself to stand and make his way out. But he was so tired.

For what felt like an eternity, he lay where he had fallen, gathering his strength and resolve. With one supreme effort, Brandon screwed up his courage and rolled over, using his hands and knees to gradually force himself to stand.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, he caught up Morrowdim and held it before him, his other hand unconsciously clutching the silver moon hung about his neck. Pale light entered the room from a baroque doorway - the only exit Brandon could discover.

Where was Harkon?

Brandon coughed, once, twice, and felt blood smear his lips; he was dying, and he would have to kill Harkon soon, or not at all.

The doorway led to a series of long, stone-lined tunnels; there were no divergences, and they led single-mindedly on. Brandon began having trouble breathing, and his coughing became worse. He turned the final corner and was confronted with a second doorway leading out onto a pristine snowscape, high above the lowlands of Skyrim. The wind chilled him, and the reflected sun blinded him, and the blood from his lips and wounds fell and stuck to the snow like perfect red rubies.

"You are a curious creature." Brandon swung around drunkenly, searching for the voice's source, and there was Harkon, standing on a drift above the door Brandon had just exited.

"Do you still believe She will save you? She will not; You Are Alone.

"I suppose I could simply let you die here on the mountain. You cannot long survive here." He paused, as if in thought, "but that I will not suffer you to endure, you have shown yourself to be worthy of that much at least." Harkon floated gently down towards his adversary, magicka flickering along his fingertips. Brandon tightened his grip on his sword, and clutched his amulet more tightly.

A bolt of lightning flew from Harkon's suddenly outstretched hand, hissing past Brandon and sublimating a patch of snow into steam. Brandon dodged out of the way of another bolt, and only just managed to bring his sword up to deflect a blow from Harkon's own weapon. The two swords screeched and sparked at the contact, and Brandon's arm buckled under the pressure, forcing him to avoid the blow a second time. He shifted his weight and off-balanced Harkon, letting Brandon shift around to the side and bring Morrowdim into a disemboweling cut. But his aim was too low, and the blade struck Harkon's intricate metal buckle and slid harmlessly to the side.

Harkon sidestepped and flung out one of his wings, catching Brandon a glancing blow across his cheek, throwing him back into a snowdrift. Breathing was now a struggle of itself, and Brandon was losing blood far too quickly.

Dragging himself upright one last time, Brandon gripped his sword and charged his enemy, dodging first one, and then another firebolt, before coming to grips with Harkon. They exchanged parries and ripostes, and the sound of their duel echoed among the high walls around them. His last ounce of strength failing, Brandon saw his moment. Parrying one strike, he left himself open to another, and Harkon took it, embedding his sword deep into Brandon's side.

Harkon had counted on a killing blow, but Brandon had already accepted his own death, and with what strength was left in him, he brought down Morrowdim on the head of his enemy, cleaving him down to the torso.

They sunk to the ground together, blood intermingling beneath them, melting the snow, and leaving Brandon kneeling in the gore of his enemy.

It was finished.

He pulled Harkon's sword from his body, and blood rushed anew from the wound. Brandon knew that he would die in this place, and was content; he had done his duty, and atoned for his sins. Brandon leaned back against a snowbank, and looked out over the green and blue landscape below him. A zephyr toyed with his hair, and caressed his face. His eyes fluttered closed.

Brandon!

His eyes jerked open to search for the voice, but there was no one to be seen. Nothing stirred but the wind.

Morrowdim glowed in the sun, and the amulet warmed beneath his hand. He felt soft hair run through his fingers, the feel of another's lips on his, the warmth of another pressed against him.

Brandon sat up, and spitting a mouthful of blood onto the snow in front of him, he Spoke, and the Words boiled and twisted in his throat like liquid fire, moving and shaping his mouth in harsh contortions:

OD AH VIING! HON ZULI AHRK ALOK PEYL HI DII TIID DO PRAAG!

The Words echoed and rang against the mountainside and faded slowly into silence. Brandon waited until finally his strength failed at last, and he slumped limply against the snow bank.

A shadow passed across the sun, and Brandon heard the beating of massive wings, and felt warm breath drifting across him. He held up his hand toward it, and felt the dragon press his nose against his offered hand.

"I am sorry, my friend," said Brandon softly, "to again be such a burden to you."

Odahviing snorted dismissively, and gently, almost tenderly, scooped Brandon's pale body into a massive claw. "Never have you been a burden to me, Dovahkiin. Nor would you be, not were you to have me carry you across all the lands of Tamriel. But your wounds are beyond my skill to heal. Whither shall I take you?"

"Volkihar. I must tell them it is done."

"By your will, Dovahkiin," replied the dragon, bowing his head in sorrow, "I know of this place, but that is where you will die."

"Then so be it."

The rhythm of the dragon's flight lulled Brandon into a dreamless sleep, broken only by glimpses of blinding sunlight and snow-white clouds.

He was deposited at the foot of the castle's ramp, still clutching his sword; all was quiet, and the sky was very blue above him.

Brandon faded in and out of consciousness, as Odahviing stood vigil over his last moments, and suddenly Serana was there, and Gunmar, and Isran, and all the others who had marched with him to face Harkon and his vampires.

Serana gathered him up in her arms, cradling his head in her lap. His hand reached up and weakly took hers. "Serana," he croaked, "it is done."

"Yes, Brandon," she nodded in affirmation, "I knew it would be." A single tear escaped her, and ran slowly down her cheek.

"I am … glad to see you safe." He coughed again, and blood filled his mouth; he was very pale, now. Brandon released her hand and clutched his sword tightly to his chest. "We might have had a life together? Mightn't we?" She nodded again, and Brandon smiled gently as Serana felt her heart break within her breast. "That is a comfort to me."

"Is there nothing we can do?" she asked, her voice panicked and torn with sorrow. But Brandon was still and silent.

"There is nothing, child," rumbled the dragon, "he is gone."

"Aranea, Aranea, Aranea," whispered Brandon suddenly, and Serana feared that at last his mind had slipped into the shadow, but then someone was there, cloaked and hooded, striding forcefully through the crowd of onlookers who were staying well away from the huge dragon standing vigil over their fallen hero. Isran tried to stop her, but she merely pushed past him with a glare. Without sparing the vampiress a glance, Aranea knelt beside Brandon and pried his sword from his hand. He struck out with his hand, trying to regain his weapon, but the dunmer woman caught it with her own hand.

"I am here, my son, I am here. And so is She. We will not abandon you." She stood, taking Morrowdim with her, and fishing a brightly-colored variegated cloth from her voluminous cloak, she thrust the sword into the earth near Brandon's head, and hung the cloth by a tassel from its hilt.

The Vigilants murmured at the sight of the cloth; they recognized a daedric totem. Hands went to weapons, and the Vigilants started forward in spite of the dragon's presence.

"Hold," rumbled the dragon, his eyes flashing with threat and his maw smoking with flame, and the Vigilants quickly subsided.

Aranea, seemingly oblivious to the exchange going on about her, placed a pure white rose petal on Brandon's lips; it fluttered only a little, as Brandon's weakened breath rattled in his chest. She knelt beside him, speaking softly to herself in a strange language that none could understand. All watched with bated breath, and at first nothing seemed to happen. Then, slowly, the rose petal blackened and wilted.

Brandon's chest rose and fell, stronger now, and his face lost the pale luminous quality it had held for so long. The dunmer woman breathed a sigh of deep relief.

"He will live."

* * *

Brandon awoke to find himself once again in a chamber at Fort Dawnguard. It was late in the afternoon, and the sun shone gently through the room's small window. Surprised even to be alive, he savored the feel of moving his limbs and the gentle stretching feeling of the lungs within his chest.

He dressed himself slowly and carefully, his barely-healed wounds making themselves known when he turned a little too much, or bent just the wrong amount. Brandon found that even this task was more than he could long endure, and he was sweating profusely by the time he had pulled on his last boot. For a quarter of an hour he simply sat on his bed, recovering. The sparse furnishing he regarded with a small spark of sadness and nostalgia for the time he had spent here, but his job was done:

It was time to go.

Grabbing Morrowdim and his few other possessions, Brandon opened the door and strode out into the open and airy spaces of the fortress. The stairs were a struggle, but after considerable effort, he reached Isran's quarters, and was admitted with a curt "Enter."

"Brandon," said the dour Redguard, by way of greeting, and gestured Brandon towards a spartan, uncomfortable chair, the room's sole acknowledgement of human frailty. "It is good to see you on your feet again."

"How long has it been?"

Isran frowned. "Two and a half, maybe three weeks." The fire crackled in the silence that followed.

"And Serana?"

Isran looked away, and stared deeply into the firelight. "Gone." Brandon's heart sank; perhaps it had been too much to hope. "She left us halfway through the return journey; we haven't seen her since." Brandon sighed.

"What happened? How did I-"

"Survive?" Isran finished, "some dunmer woman showed up just as we found you. She did some kind of magic over you - saved your life, I'm sure. You looked like cold death when you came back." Brandon smiled.

"It is time for me to leave you, Isran; my work here is done. Harkon is dead, and Skyrim is safe from his plans."

Isran nodded slowly. "You are sure?"

"Yes. I have had enough of death."

"Where will you go?"

Brandon frowned and shook his head thoughtfully. "I cannot say. Perhaps Falkreath? The people are kind there, and it is green; such things are precious to me. I may begin my life there again."

They stood then, and clasped hands together, as friends and companions. "Then I wish you luck, brother."

"And to you as well, Isran," Brandon replied. They parted then, for the last time, and Brandon descended the stairs and quietly exited the fortress.

Lis whickered to him, and nuzzled his face as he released her from the stables and led her down the path from the gate.

And there, seated beside the path on a hewn stump, sat Serana.

"There you are," she said softly, "I'm . . . I'm back."

She stood and approached him diffidently. Her eyes no longer shone with fire, but they were golden and sparkled brightly in the afternoon sun. Brandon smiled, and all his happiness and weariness was wrapped up in that single expression, but it greeted her and welcomed her with feelings no words could adequately express.

Serana smiled joyfully and clasped his hand, pulling him gently on down the path.

"Let's go make some more stories."

**UH**


End file.
